


He says 'Hate Me'

by lordmarvoloriddle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Dark Undertones, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Manipulation, Power Play, Relationship Negotiation, Stockholm Syndrome, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 18:44:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 55,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16897953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordmarvoloriddle/pseuds/lordmarvoloriddle
Summary: In the trashed upper floors of Bathilda Bagshot’s home, Lord Voldemort arrives. This time, early."Familiarity was bound to happen even in the most tragic of cases if the participants danced too often in the same circle."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Millions and millions of interminable thanks to the most wonderful beta that exists in this entire world (~˘▾˘)~ Vanillaghost. Thank you for your patience and most of all, for your time 💕💕💕

 

In the dark, all monsters were at home.

This may very well be the reason why Harry took notice of  _ him  _ far too late for the ending to ever have the chance to change.

Nagini’s venom travelled up his arm like stains on a clean cloth while the monstrous snake hid itself where Hermione had blasted it, the girl herself standing a few feet behind Harry with her eyes set on where the beast had disappeared. There was utter silence for a few deep breaths, when the cold air from outside reached through the broken windows and Harry mustered just enough strength to push himself to his knees, wand no longer in his fingers. Not even close to them.

Why was it so quiet? Why did Nagini hide from her wounded prey? Surely Hermione had not finished her off that easily… ?

The golden locket around his neck  _ tugged  _ at the same time something deep inside his own chest did, and the answer revealed itself by standing at the end of the rundown hallway as if he had been there all along.

Lord Voldemort pinned Harry with light eyes and Harry forgot how to breathe. A thousand questions twisted in and out of his mind. Where was the pain that usually announced the man’s grim arrival? Where was the pale-skinned monster from the start of the summer? Why was  _ this  _ monster wearing his long forgotten human face?

A nightmare in the form of one man; a boy with venom flooding his veins. In between them stood eternity.

“Harry Potter. At last,” that familiar and cutting voice spoke, making Harry wonder for how long he had waited in the shadows, watching them battle Nagini as Harry struggled for each pound of his heart. “And a little stolen gift. One for me to kill, and the other to retrieve.”

_ It was the end. He was going to die, Hermione was going to die, and the horcrux would once again fall into the hands of Lord Voldemort where the terror would spread and spread. Harry did not want to die! _

Yet he still drew breath — the chance of living still there for the taking. It was not quite the end just yet.

Nagini and her shiny scales had slithered into the corner of Harry’s vision by the time he acted and set the trap. He reached with his sluggish left hand for the thick wooden stick under a crowded table. Fate and luck appeared to be on his side as there was no blinding spell that flew toward his quivering form. It was the muggle way instead now.

Lord Voldemort lunged at him as the blurry silhouette of Hermione raised her wand in a brave yet feeble attempt to fight the Dark Lord, unknowing that Voldemort now danced to Harry’s tune.

The very moment those crushing fingers closed around his upper arm, Harry Apparated them away, keeping her safe by taking the monster into another land.

Specifically, one of the many forests Harry had been in during his hiding.

Voldemort’s fingers dug into the exact same place Nagini’s fangs had before the impact with the ground brought separation. Three  _ thuds _ reached his ears by the time the blinding light left his eyes at the same time his glasses did.  _ Three…  _ why three? Had Hermione — ?

Mere feet away something alive slid between piles of snow ever so softly.

The snake.

Harry was going to die. The wooden stick in his palm was utterly useless now and no more than an old decoration for furniture, a stupid trinket that had bought Hermione’s life. And ever feeling like the noose around his neck, Slytherin's locket called out for its master without a voice.

_ Harry was going to die _ .

At least  _ he should have _ , if it weren’t for the snake.

By the time he managed to raise his head and focus enough to glimpse the human monster pointing the bright green end of a familiar wand at him, Nagini made his fear come true. But in a way that was so horribly,  _ horribly  _ wrong.

“ _ Master’s blood floods my mouth. The blood of our kin, my brother, your kin… yourself. The boy… Master…” _

Harry’s eyes were filled with tears, blurring his vision further while the Dark Lord turned into a statue. A cold sweat gripped Harry as Nagini hissed some more and deranged cackles shattered the nearly holy silence of the long since visited woods.

There was a cutting edge to Voldemort’s mad laughter. One of wrath, resentment, futility. One that promised pain. The golden pendant round Harry’s neck pulsed in perfect tune with the Dark Lord’s howling. And for the first time it seemed relieved to abandon the heat of Harry’s body when he took it off and threw it at the other man’s feet. It landed among all that white, glimmering in the pale moonlight.

Then with a faint blow of wind, Harry’s vision came into perfect focus.

He saw without aid, a horrifying gift forced upon him by Lord Voldemort. There was no autonomy anymore, no boundaries, not when he shared with this one man what he shared with no one before. Something that shouldn't be shared in the first place: His soul, or perhaps… the Dark Lord’s.

Silence creeped back into the forest and Nagini’s venom travelled farther into his body while her monstrous master inched closer to where Harry unwillingly knelt.

Snow crunched underneath Lord Voldemort’s feet as if it felt pain, forced just as Harry was to endure the man’s defeating presence. He was all grace and contained elegance in an inky coat with dark hair ruffled by the faint wind. The middle-aged man crouched down to his eye-level. And Harry could now see it all, forever indebted to Voldemort’s sadistic gift for his own sadistic pleasure.

“I loathe your existence. You are the closest thing to a punishment there is for me. But so am I to you.  _ You,  _ an unworthy weakling carrying my precious soul. How the old cockroach must have laughed, how he must have rejoiced at the thought of me splintering my own existence…”

Harry’s scalding fever made his attention cling to all the wrong words. “Riddle…” he managed around his numb tongue that just wouldn’t move swiftly enough. “You’re one to talk about old people.”

Faster than Nagini’s strike, Voldemort clasped his chin as if he burned with the desire to crush Harry’s skull. “ _ You — _ You dare insult me?  _ You, _ who were nothing before you met me,” the Dark Lord spat, his nostrils flaring as his handsome face came dangerously close to Harry’s own. “You, who are nobody on your own. Your name, Harry James Potter, would equal  _ nothing  _ without me. You wouldn't be who you are… wouldn’t  _ know _ who you are without — ”

“Then let me be nothing!” Harry shouted right back. “Let me die! Lose a sliver of your  _ precious  _ soul and gain another from my death. Get rid of your punishment forevermore! Let me go once and for all!”

There was a fire in the Dark Lord’s gaze; a warning, a promise. Regret instantly enveloped Harry’s feeble body.  _ A grave mistake had just been made. _

“Your wish is my command. Yet remember, Harry Potter, my Chosen One, my horcrux… you wished for it.  _ You  _ did. Cry, beg, scrape your knees and scream for me or any other savior of your liking. You still won’t die.”

Sharp nails and scorching magic sunk into Harry’s flesh while Voldemort’s expression contorted into one of utter malice. Harry was so shaken by the sudden cold following their second Apparition that the burning in his veins — or more strangely, the lack of it — passed unnoticed.

When he was released from the man’s claws, only pearly white met his stare. Everything was completely white with snow, surrounding him from all sides along with the pale blue of the sky above — nearly as pale as the monster’s eyes. The sharp wind had no shape to curse. It bit into his flesh far deeper than Voldemort’s nails had, without leaving any mark to cover in hopes of warmth. This was a whole other world.

“Where did you — ?”

“That’s none of your concern.” The Dark Lord’s perfect teeth did not clink together like Harry’s did in the cold. “This is nothing more than a fulfilment of your wish. You asked for nothing, so now  _ I’ll have you be nothing _ . So be a good boy and don’t allow this lesson to be in vain. Learn what your consciousness offers and do not fear death as it will not reach you this time. Not by Nagini’s venom, starvation, or freezing. You will not die, yet you will learn.” Straightening to his full, impressive height, Lord Voldemort offered one last glance promising unfathomable pain.

Harry’s knees had already gone stiff half buried in the snow. He shivered from head to toe while Lord Voldemort simply Disapparated, for once leaving  _ Harry  _ behind. Was there any point in running after the Dark Lord when not even his shadow met Harry’s now-flawless vision?

Harry trusted his words. In spite of it all, he wouldn’t die. Suffer like crazy, but not die. Was he glad for it? Between this grim reality and the absence of Voldemort’s presence, a rift was making itself known.

Cold. It was so cold the scarf around Harry’s neck may as well be made of thin paper. Yet still he secured it around his neck, nearly choking himself. Even screaming for help would have been unwise in all that icy wind.

 

*** * ***

 

Three days had come and gone, three dark and terrible nights in which Harry laid down in the midst of another snow storm. During the day he travelled, when the light was blinding but the wind more merciful and didn’t cut quite as deep. He travelled…

But to where? It made little, if any, difference. The act itself of monumental insignificance. But Harry needed a purpose, something tangible, something else besides waiting for the monster to return. For he  _ would _ come at a certain moment, and until then Harry was forced not to lose his mind.

His surroundings passed as a nightmare — a pearly one, but a nightmare nonetheless. An immense stretch of whiteness in whichever direction he turned his head. Arms tight around himself, Harry placed one foot in front of the other, searching for something as mundane as a tree, a protector to shield him if only for a moment. But there was none. Only this colorless sea lacking an end.

_ No, it has to have an end, everything does. I need to just… keep going. _

In the next few moments, where he carried his own legs against their will, Harry doubted his own sanity. What if this was a dream? Another vision gifted by Voldemort to teach his precious lesson? But could your bones be stiff in dreams? Could you feel hunger clawing in your belly?

Warming a fist of snow into his mouth, Harry trod into the unknown with only himself for company.

He often wondered about Ron and Hermione. One likely with his family and the other still in hiding. Both hopefully safe. Then his teeth clinked like bells and Harry thought about no one but himself, of the part with the monster’s soul.

All his previous plans had faded into nothingness, ash and dust and everything in between. Harry knew he would not be allowed to die, the Dark Lord had promised so. But the pain, the cold, the feeling of futility, the shadows at the corner of his eyes. It teared his sanity to shreds in a special kind of death.

The only salvation was not giving up. If he fell, he got up. And continued to do so, for as many times as needed. In a sick and twisted way, he was making Lord Voldemort proud.

Yes, very proud.

But how far until salvation? This lesson… how long did it aim to last? For Harry was learning nothing but the desperate need for warmth and a place far from all kinds of death… Did the Dark Lord want something else?

Harry took a deep and painful breath, the wind nearly sending him to his knees. “You won! You won! You won…” His voice dissolved with each word. Then with another brief show of bravery: “Riddle! I said you won!”

Only the wind called back.

Harry came to notice his own tears only when his lashes glued together, joined by the cold. He desperately scrubbed the icy layer off and, with swollen eyes, shaking limbs, and the realization of another continuous torment, Harry had no other choice but to face the vast mystery before him again.

_ How long? How long until he collapsed? _ Would Voldemort arrive  _ then _ ? Was this the lesson he so patiently waited to serve?

Dawn arrived with a bright hope — Trees. The edge of a pine forest waited not so far away. In his habit of gazing down at his feet, Harry was not surprised he had glimpsed this welcoming sight so late. His face broke into a smile at the promise of shelter from the cutting wind, excitement prompting him to move quicker, to get there faster than his tired legs could possibly carry him. His breath was laboured and panting when Harry reached the middle of the distance between him, the pines and larches.

Then the ice broke.

In the first few moments, he experienced nothing at all except perhaps the wonderful sensation of  _ not being —  _ of  _ nonexistence  _ at its finest. It even briefly passed his mind that he may have fallen asleep.

But soon the piercing weight of water dragged him down, stinging like no other as it seized his twitching limbs which struggled to swim toward the surface. To the promising light filtering through the blackness. To the opening from which he had fallen through, and his only way out.

Clawing his way up for a gasp of breath would have been a far easier battle if he had an actual surface to sink his fingers into. But there was only icy daggers gashing his skin.

So down Harry sank, in spite of all the struggling, where darkness circled him and all the lights in the world far above were behind a thick ice that guarded the entrance to the living world.

Harry finally entered that place of nonexistence where thought itself was nonexistent, and all hope was swallowed by the wet and numbing cold. It was truly nonexistence at its finest.

Then came a vibration against his ears. The only sound in that infinite wasteland where he was at some unknown point in his journey to the bottom of the lake. On the verge on labelling it as his wild imagination or the beginnings of a hallucination, a solid pair of arms sneaked beneath his legs and scooped Harry up and away.

The hands tightened around his stomach and, four heaves later, Harry’s abused lungs expanded, chasing the hurt away yet hurting just the same.

Salvation had come at last, as did the feeling of his paper-like skin freezing on his bones.

Harry’s head fell against his savior’s shoulder, lacking the necessary strength to push away from the offered warmth. He craved to completely sink into it, to drown in it, and let it chase away the tremor biting into his flesh. A glimpse from between his lashes revealed snowflakes trapped in  _ his  _ dark mane and grey eyes blinking down at Harry.

Yes, _him —_ Lord Voldemort, the monster, the murderer, the nightmare… But also Harry’s sole source of warmth. And more strangely, the one with whom he shared said warmth.  Just like his gruesome soul; both having been forced down Harry’s throat just the same. But would the curse be worth the price?

Harry got one last glimpse of the sky that perfectly resembled the color of Voldemort’s gaze before the Dark Lord put an end to the nightmare.

Only to begin another, this one far more intricate and subtle.

 

*** * ***

 

_ Him _ , there was no one else but  _ him _ .

The action of opening his eyes was one of tremendous effort but Harry had no other choice. Once again there was water up to his chin, grazing his lower lip from time to time, and he jerked like a wild beast in the face of danger before he was greeted by the sight of  _ him. _

Harry froze, countless words dying on his lips as the Dark Lord’s fingers closed around his spasmodic throat, trapping Harry in place in this… bathtub. The arm in question had its sleeve rolled up, guarding the expensive material from the hot water submerging Harry’s trembling,  _ bare  _ body. And Voldemort, his unwilling savior, was looking at Harry as if he wished for nothing but the chance to sink Harry’s head underwater until his existence was wiped from the face of the Earth and his legacy faded into nothingness.

“Your  _ luck  _ announced itself a worthy opponent to my greatness,” the man drawled, his grip on Harry’s throat tensing to the point of nearly choking. “Here I was… waiting for the last days of your madness to meet their end, for your punishment to be delivered… When you decided on getting yourself drowned, forcing me to come to your aid without a single wail from you. Tell me, boy… How is this fair?”

Harry gasped for breath, soaked hands covering Voldemort’s own, before he was finally released,  _ pushed _ , and the back of his head sharply collided with the edge of the tub. And despite being far from safe, he was safer now that he was no longer in the Dark Lord’s physical grip.

From a single yet lengthy stare, the monster was monstrous in his apparent mundanity. An impressively handsome man in appearance and attire, a man leaning above Harry’s bathtub staring not at his naked body like a common predator, but into his eyes. Eyes that pledged unimaginable pain, nights and days of terror, and all the opposites of peace and security. Promising _ himself. _

“I… Where am I? What —”

“If you leave this bathtub before I allow you to, I give you my word I’ll sever both your legs and watch you bathe in this water while it fills with your blood. Perhaps I’ll even force you to drink it, just because I can. Technically speaking, I do not need your  _ whole  _ body as a vessel for my horcrux to grow and thrive. The purpose behind this bath in the first place, you ask? To prevent  _ sickness _ ,” he spat the word, a strand of hair obscuring his burning gaze. “Pneumonia is the last thing you may want in these dark times, Harry Potter — blessed horcrux yet anything but — so stay here like a good boy before I make good on my promise. Once all is done, dress yourself with what is waiting on this chair— ” he gestured to the sole piece of removable furniture in the marble bathroom — “and come meet me. To our mutual dismay, dire circumstances have pushed us into a tentative truce in hopes of survival.”

There came another piercing glance accompanied by a grimace, as if Voldemort’s words were poison in his own mouth, before the man stood to his freakish, towering height. His shadow reached the tall ceiling before he faced away from the tub and left the chamber like an actor departing from the main stage where the public —  _ Harry — _ could only tremble in anticipation.

There was the click of a door being shut and Harry’s hands pressed over his mouth as his entire body shuddered with his scream. It was too late for anything else but denial and terror, both of which intertwined with one another to the point of complete union. All that was good in his life was crashing down around him, leaving nothing but the monster’s amusement.

What now? Everything had gone to shit and, for once, Harry could do nothing about it.  _ He didn’t know where to start _ . The overconfident horcrux hunting proved nothing but childish play now that his own sacrifice was demanded to finish it. His  _ death _ , a death he’d crawl away from if needed.

The thrill abandoned him for cold fear which usurped its place as Harry steadily lowered both his hands back underwater where it was warm and life itself felt less real. Because reality was too much to take in all at once at the moment.

He felt feverish yet his body quivered as if terribly cold, his mind a storm with no end in sight as the monster awaited for him to ready himself.  _ God, Lord Voldemort wanted to talk! _ This particular day of Harry’s life surpassed any previous nightmare.

After gazing at the ceiling for a long time, a single knock sounded on the bathroom door to signal his much dreaded cue for  _ the discussion _ .

Harry dressed in record time while trembling all over, the act of putting on his socks being the most challenging as balance problems and clumsy hands were at the root of it all.  _ He really didn’t want to do this. _

The provided clothing was warm, comfortable, and black as night. Harry took a deep breath that delivered a wave of aches to his lungs before hiding his freezing hands in the puffy sleeves of the turtleneck sweater. Then he left behind the last piece of normality of his existence.

_ He really didn’t want to do this. _

The house was far from big. It was more of a cabin than a house, with only two rooms beside the bathroom and what looked like a kitchen. Harry made his way passed its closed door toward the inviting smell and sound of a crackling fire.  _ More heat — wonderful, wonderful heat. _

True to his hopes, when he arrived in the sitting room, the chimney was burning hot and the fire casting mysterious dark shapes over the cozy space. There was a sofa with far too many pillows, a library stuffed with books to the point of being ludicrous, and a table with only two chairs.

Giving no sign he had heard Harry enter, Lord Voldemort faced away from him as he gazed into the darkness behind the windows. Harry’s feet froze, not daring to make a judgment on where he stood just yet. Especially with the promise from earlier about… his legs…

“A self-heating blanket is waiting for you on the sofa,” the Dark Lord spoke, still not gracing Harry with his demanding gaze.

The monster’s need for him alive was just as horrifying as it was fascinating.

Conscious of the threat to the apparently caring words, Harry tentatively wrapped himself in the grey material and a lulling warmth seeped into his bones. Hugging himself, Harry took refuge among the pillows, heart menacing to leave his chest.

The duality of the situation was madness. While his body was in a private paradise, his mind sat on edge, threatening to tumble over into darkness.

Lord Voldemort finally grew bored of his stargazing… or perhaps he grew hungry for something else. Paralysing fear danced in Harry’s blood as the man leisurely came his way. Harry secured the blanket around his shoulders instinctively but Voldemort merely summoned one of the two chairs, not breaking out in violence just yet.

Once he’d sat, the staring contest commenced. They were both winning after tense moments of Voldemort provoking and Harry answering said provocation. His entire skin prickled with the need to look away and sever this mental violation… and yet, the Dark Lord’s eyes were entirely against the idea.  _ The damn monster had always been unnaturally fixated on him. _

With dry lips, Harry talked into the unknown as a strange hysteria demanded boldness from him. “Are you going to take me apart now?”

Voldemort’s expression could be described as terribly smug, as if Harry’s words provided a great source of entertainment. Not that he smiled or anything… Just his eyes. It was all about the eyes… perhaps it was in the lazy blinks.

“Should I, boy? Tear you limb from limb? Keep nothing but your head stuffed prettily in an ornate box for me to gaze upon any time I wish? Or perhaps you mean a different way of  _ taking you apart _ ? One more intimate, less permanent, but far more fitting. I could summon my followers and let them have your thrashing body while I watched, until your hole dripped with cum from each man who mounted you.”

Shivering in spite of the new clothes, blanket, and burning fire, Harry raised his chin. Face red, he willed the sickening threat far from his mind. Or so he tried. “Please. You’d rather have them watch  _ you  _ while  _ you  _ did what you have so thoroughly described. You wouldn’t allow anyone else to defile your soul,” Harry  _ hoped _ .

The utter stupor of Lord Voldemort uttering those nauseating words paled in comparison to the look in his eyes at that moment. His stare was downright filthy. “There’s still hope for you, it seems,” the man mused, voice lowering to the point of being menacing. “Then,  _ my soul _ , tell me. How badly do you wish to live?”

“Bad enough to scream for you in that freezing land.”

The accusation was deemed unworthy of a reaction. “Fair enough. But for now, listen; misfortune has it that you’re my horcrux. I won’t bother explaining what this is, considering you had my blessed locket in your possession and your purpose for it was well-known. The details of its creation are also painfully obvious. So it is onto other details that we must now proceed…” There was a dramatic pause in which Voldemort tilted his head for an even more dramatic purpose: To _ terrify _ . “Far from me is the thought of ending your pitiful existence in these conditions… Until I discover a proper way to extract the piece of myself from your feeble person, that is. But until then, you are to remain here.”

“‘Here?’” Harry quietly asked in hopes of finding out more about this mysterious location.

“ _ Here _ .”

The cruelty of this response left no room for speculation, or perhaps far too much room.

“And… what’s going to happen to me after you take back your soul?”

Voldemort studied him, still with utter filth in his grey eyes. Harry hated it.  _ Hated him _ . Only this man could bring such terror with a single glance, with his mere presence. Only he could make Harry feel so small. Like nothing more than a child before the monster which ghosted over him, threatening and intimidating, demanding Harry’s best behavior. This man whose very taunts always crawled under his skin like a disease.

“Depends,” the Dark Lord cryptically responded long past the moment of unbearable silence. “Depends on you, to be more specific. So tell me, boy, are you a zealot? Do not lie, for I will know. ”

Harry was at a loss for words. “I — What?”

“So terribly eloquent. In light of my future plans, it felt appropriate to clear this error of communication as soon as possible. Extremism has its own story to share. Different approaches are in store.”  _ The level of hypocrisy of this man was astonishing _ . “I no longer wish you any terrible harm—”

“Yet you took pleasure in making me suffer while I lost my mind in that land of winter,” Harry interrupted, his sharp tongue getting the best of him.

_ Stupid stupid stupid! _

Voldemort’s fingers buried themselves in the arms of the chair and Harry flinched as a silent threat was exchanged between them, so that the man’s following words were not truly necessary when he said, “Interrupt me again and I’ll carve out your tongue, right after taking care of those legs.  _ Foolish child. _ You try shame me for my pleasure?  _ You? _ Yes, I felt it. Same as you would have, had our roles been reversed. Do not preach to me.”

“You’re wrong. I’m not cruel. Other people’s misery doesn’t bring me any joy.”

“And how would you know? Have you tried? You have not, I know. My horcrux, some advice: Until you know all of yourself, refrain from throwing accusations like mindless curses. It takes a lifetime and them some to grow familiar will all of oneself. But you did not offer a clear response to my question. Are you a zealot? Yes or no?”

“No,” Harry let out through clenched teeth.  _ Not like you are, you murderous, megalomaniacal piece of shit. _

The corners of Voldemort’s lips twitched as if aware of each and every single one of Harry’s thoughts.“I am very convinced.”

“You don’t believe me,” Harry stated the obvious yet completely taken aback by the assumption.

“You have time to prove me wrong.”

_ Did he?  _ Harry lowered his eyes to the raging fire before meeting Voldemort’s piercing gaze once again. “Okay, I think I understand. You want something from me — something more than simply living for your horcrux’s sake before and after its removal. But why? You’ve said it yourself… my fate after the soul transfer is tricky. There’s nothing stopping you from throwing me into a cell and being done with it until the long awaited moment arrives. Sever my legs, my tongue… rape me as you’ve said, before finally uttering the killing curse. Instead you bring me to this house, offer clothes, prepare a bath. Why? Because you want something. Speak clearly. State your terms.”

The Dark Lord acknowledged him with stormy eyes and a cruel arch of his lips. “You struggling to negotiate is an amusing sight. Like a mouse playing at being a cat. Or a cat playing at being a dog. Such a childish attempt, yet negotiate we shall. You crave it, don’t you? Freedom?”

In hindsight, the question was rather stupid but Voldemort always had a tendency for the dramatic. Harry nodded.

“What you desire is clear. Your life, your freedom. What  _ I  _ happen to desire is far more complicated. But for an easier understanding of this discussion, I’ll simply call it control over the wizarding world. Something I’ve already achieved. But… not completely. On the political scene there are still worthy adversaries even after Dumbledore’s death. Some who have even been fuelled by it, one could argue. Child… you must know that I have no intention of being a constant public figure, seeking the masses approval. This is not how I operate… But the world still does, and Lucius Malfoy is not the appropriate individual to calm the troubled waters.”

Grey eyes stabbed into Harry’s very soul over which the Dark Lord had some kind of ownership, as disturbing as the notion was.

“You want me as your political puppet?” Harry couldn't help but laugh, connecting the dots.

The man wasn’t amused in the slightest. He frowned. “Simply put, yes. Your answer?”

Was there any answer besides the obvious  _ yes _ ? Perhaps, but it was one more painful than the other with the final destination being certain death. Harry did not want to die but playing by Voldemort’s tune while subjugating people to it as well was an entirely different thing. He was convinced the man knew of these conflicting feelings too. Harry could read it in the challenging gleam in those eyes. But why set a task Harry had no means of accomplishing? Was it another punishment? Something else?  _ So many ‘why’s _ …

Lord Voldemort was surely messing with him, hiding something more behind the curtain of a reluctant salvation. Maybe he wanted Harry to fail — a form of punishment, then. But it was never easy with this man, anything but easy.  _ What to do, what to do?  _ What was worse than the truth?

“Yes, I accept your terms. Yet you must know I’ll never welcome your atrocities. So how do you expect me to publicly justify them?”

“Why do you think I’ve questioned your zealousness?” the Dark Lord answered with another question. He was neither angered nor pleased. He was not anything in particular. “You speak about atrocities, but my actions are so much more. Your adherent faith in good and evil is what shields your sight from such truths. Which is why it is the major setback in my plans regarding your existence. So, my unfortunate horcrux… I accept your acceptance, but until you possess a more openminded view of the world, you are to remain  _ here _ . And do not lie in hopes of influencing my decision, for I will know.”

“If you’re going to wait for me to become vile then I’ll be locked in here for a long, long time.”

Was this it? The temptation of freedom was so prettily wrapped. But was Harry being played by this man? And if he knew he was, was he  _ really  _ being played?

Yes. Yes, he was. But Harry knew.

Damned be all, life had changed its path and masked a way down as an inviting way up. However, this manipulation served as a purpose for them both. Harry ached to keep on living while the Dark Lord was well aware of his feeble control over the masses. Of the disdain the light and moderate politicians had for his cause. Harry fit in this all like he had been painted into the very artwork. He hated it. But what other choice did he have? Continuing to hunt for horcruxes would be an attack on his own life, being captive here was not a real existence, and ending up viciously murdered after the horcrux removal was… something to be avoided at all costs.

Offering Voldemort’s intimidating person another gaze, Harry came to the rational conclusion that it was not in his best interest to lose the monster’s soul. Far from it. If the Dark Lord managed to find a way to take it back — something which Harry had no doubt he’d succeed in doing —  Harry’s chance at continued existence was on uneven ground. Until then, he needed to prove himself indispensable by other means.

A political puppet… It was as good an option as any another. In truth, a better one than Harry could hope for.

“Are you quite finished with justifying your decisions to yourself?” Voldemort had stood, his chair floating back to its usual place by the table. Something in his posture made it obvious he was getting ready to leave and desert Harry in this place.

“Yes,” Harry admitted through clenched teeth, winning himself an arched eyebrow.

“Frown all you want, horcrux, but your staying here is entirely up to you. Necessities such as food or warmth will be magically delivered while everything else will rest on your shoulders. In your assigned bedroom you will find books waiting on the nightstand. Do well to read them. I won’t tolerate my spokesman being a fool. Perhaps you’ll even have a change of heart.” With his back to Harry, he moved to what could only be the front door. “As a last observation and a token of hope: You, Harry Potter, who thought himself a saint, are viler than you give yourself credit for. Any other saint would have already sacrificed his life for the greater cause. And now it plays in your favor. Curious.”

And so he left, without allowing Harry time for forming an appropriate response to his accusations.

Blanket still tightly wrapped around his shoulders, Harry left his place by the fire for the chance to peer out the windows like the Dark Lord had done before. Only darkness and silvery snow met his eyes. It appeared Harry’s prison was built surrounded by the living hell he had only just survived from. Had Voldemort watched Harry’s descent into insanity by this very window? Glass fogged by his own breath, he turned away.

_ He had never been more scared. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Millions and millions of interminable thanks to the most wonderful beta that exists in this entire world (~˘▾˘)~ Vanillaghost. Thank you for your patience and most of all, for your time 💕💕💕

 

 

In daylight, the view was rather beautiful.

After interminable hours of night spent in the company of no sleep and uncontrollable fear, Harry had dressed in not one but three shirts, a pair of pants, and a fluffy coat before he tried the door keeping him prisoner.

The handle submitted to the weight of his palm and the only-ever-dreamed-of freedom presented itself. It was suspicious but Harry proved himself unable to refuse his curiosity _. Curiosity_ _, not possibility,_ he shocked himself by thinking. How come? If given the chance, would he really run away from the Dark Lord’s clutches? Knowing what he did now?

 _He would hunt me to the other end of the earth and back._

Harry sighed and stepped through the doorway with determination, his shiny boots that weren’t really his sinking into ankle deep snow. After a few meters he stood, shivering, and observed his surroundings.

Behind him was an ordinary cabin, the kind seen in furniture magazines with countless pictures under the label of _Christmas house for a cozy get-away_. Well, it was just about — or even past — Christmas now, Harry realized as he gazed into the distance. Standing atop of this mountain, only snow and trees were glimpsed. A pretty sight to invoke gruesome memories. Perhaps Harry himself had wandered down there only yesterday. A shudder which had nothing to do with the cold tore at his body.

Fine, time to test the wards. Harry took no more than twenty steps until he ran, head first, into an invisible wall. Surely Voldemort was having a good laugh at that. He sighed, temporally discarding his thirst for adventure that would lead to nowhere but trouble. There was enough to be found inside.

Reading truly was his only way out. Let it not be said he looked forward to it, but it needed be done. And the sooner, the better. With the heated blanket around his shoulders, Harry curled underneath the sheets and reached for the first assigned text. _The Prince_. Niccolo Machiavelli. Wasn’t he a muggle author? Yes, yes he surely was. Harry remembered having heard the name in the muggle world, but where? When? It was nothing to lose sleep over in different circumstances, _however,_ the Dark Lord had ordered him to read a book written by a muggle. A muggle! Why? The very same man who hated everything about muggles, who aimed at nothing else but the utter demolition of their species. Why?

Eyes no longer framed by round spectacles skimmed over the first page titled _Dedication_.

 

‘ _Those who strive to obtain the good graces of a prince are accustomed to come before him with such things as they hold most precious, or in which they see him take most delight; whence one often sees horses, arms, cloth of gold, precious stones, and similar ornaments presented to princes, worthy of their greatness.’_

 

Philosophy… Voldemort had assigned philosophy. Muggle philosophy. Was there wizarding philosophy to compare? No one had ever mentioned it to Harry, not even Hermione. And that said everything. But now he read the ones belonging to a long dead muggle. At the Dark Lord’s insistence no less. Enough complaining! He had expected to read _How to use the Cruciatus on family and friends_ or something similar so it turned out rather well.

Snowflakes fell outside the window while Harry read.

 

*** * ***

 

She thought she was past weeping. Yet that evening, when it was her turn to fetch water from down the river, Hermione was offered countless opportunities to make sure she had perfectly dry cheeks by the time their wards and tent came into sight.

And just as thought, there was Ron awaiting her at the entrance where he picked the bucket from her hands, their fingers grazing, and him aware of what had occurred in the woods with only a single glance. He said nothing and Hermione had no words to express her gratitude. Only silence.

This was the fourth day the redhead had found her using Dumbledore’s not-quite-so-ordinary trinket, the fifth since Harry had disappeared with You-Know-Who… Five torturous days and they still had no lead. Where to start looking? Godric's Hollow had provided no answers no matter how thoughtfully they searched.

Yet the stolen words from the radio Ron fiddled with announced no crushing defeat of the Light’s side, no captured Chosen One, no corpse displayed to the masses… But no defeated Dark Lord either. It was a relief at the same time it was absolutely infuriating. There was no information and in order to collect any of said information they had to prod into dangerous places that bit back. Like the Burrow that Ron refused to even consider in their plans.

“No,” he had said when Hermione suggested arranging a meeting with one of the Weasleys, the twins, Bill, even Charlie. “We’re in dire need of help, but if _he_ truly has Harry, we two are next on the list. We need to play this out the right way, we need to be smart. You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters expect some kind a contact with my family; they’re under constant surveillance ever since we left after the wedding. Even if we succeed at making contact it’ll mean absolutely nothing, just a death sentence for everyone involved. It’s not worth risking it. Not for them, not for us.”

Ron was right, naturally. But Harry was undoubtedly being tortured with each moment they wasted standing here and conversing about it! That night Ron slept, not having gathered any crushing memories to keep him awake in the middle of the night. Not like she did. _He hadn_ _’_ _t been there to witness it_ , Hermione bitterly thought before logic made her glad for it. That monstrosity of a snake had seemed the ultimate enemy back then, at least until he — until _Voldemort_ _—_ had arrived. No longer wearing the face he had worn at the Ministry back in their fifth year. Instead he had been a man, or shaped to resemble one. A handsome man who left no doubt in anyone’s mind as to his true, horrifying identity.

The magic that had been in the air, the raw power intoxicating the chamber… Who else could he have been? Yet the most convincing evidence must have been the consumed manner in which he peered at Harry. Not at her, the one in possession of a wand and the more obvious threat. But at a wounded Harry who had not even been able to stand on his own two legs without toppling over. Voldemort had had no eyes for her — not even for his own snake.

Remembering that scene, witnessing it, caused a strange feeling to envelope Hermione. It was one akin to… _voyeurism_. She had felt as if _she_ was an outsider intruding on something private. Harry and _him_! Ludicrous! Hermione had been so taken aback by the nightmarish sight that by the time You-Know-Who acted, it had already been too late for any fight to start at all.

And now Harry had been the one to pay the price.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said, about playing this the right way...” She accepted the cup of warm tea from Ron’s hands and joined him at the table where they sat face to face, just they had done all the nights before. “We have no lead on Harry.” Her voice trembled and the redhead gulped without touching his drink. “It’s breaking me apart but it’s the truth and there’s no point in lying to ourselves since it helps no one. Yet there is no news, good or bad. If indeed he has captured Harry, we’d know by now — everyone would. You-Know-Who would have announced it even to the dead. But we have silence, a silence that is killing us but is better than bad news. That being said, it’d be foolish of us to lose our path.”

“You’re saying to go on with the horcrux hunting.”

Hermione nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Precisely. We may have lost the locket, but there are others. The cup from Harry’s… or rather, _his_ dreams… hidden in Gringotts. Then there’s the snake. We can do something other than just waiting! We have to! Harry would want us to!”

Ron appeared just as conflicted as she was on the inside. With an exhausted sigh, he hid his face in his palms and for quite some time not offering an answer. But it would be one of acceptance. Anything was better than sitting in the middle of nowhere doing nothing and Ron knew it just as well.

“I… Yes, we’ll do it. Yes. For Harry.” With deliberately slow movements the redhead grasped her hand right there between their cups, consoling them both.

“For Harry,” she echoed, blinking away tears. “Gringotts first?”

“Yes, Gringotts first. We’ll think of something once we’re in… Gringotts. Any brilliant idea on how to steal from goblins and get away in one piece?”

Something. There had to be something!

 

*** * ***

 

Machiavelli had been interesting. Not entirely democratic but… _interesting_. Harry understood the charm, as had another apparently. The Tom Riddle from once upon a time must have served this book for breakfast. Now it was Harry’s turn.

Diplomacy, for various purposes, was taught in between these fancy lines. While Harry was well aware of the manipulation induced through the lecture it did not mean he was not enjoying it. Because he was, and tremendously so. Charming language and proper governing of people aside, even if muggle, the recommendations could work in this world. In these particular conditions stirred by the Dark Lord himself.

The fact the book had succeeded in messing with his moral compass was also… interesting.

Harry abandoned his musings in favor of food. Not because he wanted to but because he needed to. He needed to eat in order to live. Live! Wasn’t this the purpose of this whole far-too-late and so-called education?

In any case, it wasn’t like the chances of a real change were actually high. Harry was convinced this dearly desired change of heart would not arrive anytime soon. Besides, he didn’t need to really believe in Voldemort and his shady ideals. Just needed to fake it well enough to satisfy the other man. Enough to be allowed out of this prison. Perhaps meet Ron and Hermione, protect them, protect everyone by fooling them like a heartless monster.

 Harry threw the book away in disgust.

His meals were always prepared at precisely the same time every day and always waited on the table in the other room. Three times a day; no more, no less. At first Harry had suspected the presence of a house elf yet wasn’t so convinced anymore now. The Dark Lord wouldn’t risk bringing in a third party into the whole affair and Harry would have glimpsed his or her presence at least once. In conclusion, there were no house elves.

Magic was broad enough already.

On another thought… Being here all alone — wasn’t this a form of torture as well? Talking to oneself a few times just to hear another human voice must be a sign of something unnatural and undesirable unfolding, and surely must have been Voldemort’s intended goal all along.

If it were not for the real chance of being set free, Harry would have already killed himself. There were enough knives in the kitchen to do so, as he had confirmed many times already. But no, this was not the end. Hope remained… He just needed to be strong and not give up.

Just as he had not given up while trudging through the cold winds that raged outside, nor while he drowned and negotiated his future afterward with the monster who went by the name of Lord Voldemort. What was reading and learning compared to that? But loneliness… _N_ _o_. Harry had been lonely once. He just needed to get used to the feeling again. At any rate, it was far better than the best of times at the Dursleys. At least here he had his own room, three meals a day, and no one to raise their hand to him. A good start for a bad deed.

Shortly after dinner, while Harry sat all twisted up in Voldemort’s blanket by the fire, the front door opened in the company of countless fat snowflakes in a twisted answer to his loneliness.

Harry flinched in surprise though the identity of his visitor was no mystery. Who else was able to evade such intricate wards?

Mimicking disinterest, Harry raised his eyes and his heart skipped a beat or two.

A shred of glass was imbedded deep inside Lord Voldemort’s right cheek.

“You’re hurt,” Harry breathed as the man summoned himself a chair, just as he had last time. _Just as he had the first. How many times would there be in the end?_

The Dark Lord blinked as if only just realizing the fact, and prized the foreign object out of his flesh in one elegant movement. The sight it left behind had little chance of being described as a pretty. Yet Voldemort did not appear particularly concerned with the state of his face as he sat down, the gash so very red and dripping blood down his cheek in a mock image of tears. “Do not celebrate just yet, horcrux,” he snarled. “I won’t die.”

“I didn’t suggest you would.”

What else could he say? That he wanted to know _who_? Pun indeed, Harry _was_ dying to know who had been the one to make such an attempt on Lord Voldemort’s life. This _someone_ who had landed a hit, and outdone all Harry’s and Dumbledore’s accomplishments in bringing the Dark Lord harm. _Years paled in the face of a single moment_. This someone who was surely dead and rotten, feeding the ground or Nagini’s belly.

Should Harry press his luck in the art of conversation? Why not?

“I never took you for a masochist. Heal it, it’s making me sick.”

Which wasn’t exactly a lie, yet the sight of a no longer untouchable Voldemort was what truly made him uncomfortable — and perhaps even sick. It shattered the familiar illusion which had kept him company all these years. Now it seemed the Dark Lord was far from untouchable. And despite the fact that he probably should, Harry did not find any joy in the other man’s wound. If anything, it was a threat to his own security. If the Dark Lord could not protect himself, what could he dream of doing for Harry?

“Flee to your room then, if you must. _Leave,_ ” Voldemort taunted with a snigger.

It seemed doubtful whether he really wished Harry would do such thing. But if that were the case, then why not press even harder? This man owed him enough sleepless nights.

“You’re the one who came here on his own. Why should _I_ be the one to leave? You could have bled in your own bed but here you are, coming to see me in the middle of the night after such little time had passed. Obviously this project of yours has just begun and my reading is far from finished. So what is it? Do you visit when you grow bored with everything else? Are murders and acts of spreading terror not stimulating enough for someone of your intellect?”

“Do I need a reason to glimpse the face of my soul?”

Harry had no answer for that.

That grey gaze of Voldemort’s was anything but kind. He was measuring Harry with an expression close to… _disgust_. Knowingly waiting for a response that was never to come. Perhaps this was the reason _why,_ or perhaps Harry’s mere existence.

“I’ve asked you a question, horcrux. Your tongue was rather sharp just now, so why keep your silence in all the wrong moments? Are you affronted by your status? Horcrux. _My horcrux_ ,” he repeated with satisfaction, sharp cheekbones smeared with red and gore. “Does the truth hurt your lips? I imagine so, just like any other weakling. Some advice — never choose to ignore painful truths in favour of an illusion of happiness. Cease being weak.”

_To hell with him and his preachings! Just like bloody Dumbledore who danced around truths with pretty words!_

Not sparing the man another glance, Harry stood with _his_ blanket and went to the other room. Running away from the monster while at the same time following his advice. What could go wrong?

When the door of the room slammed open again and crashed against the wall, Harry was far from startled — scared, yes, but not startled. Lord Voldemort stalked into the room, steps echoing against the wooden floors and creaking from time to time. It was an entrance worthy of a fairytale villain. The footsteps came to an end beside the bed upon which Harry awaited, back glued to the headboard and eyes on the man. Curiously, the Dark Lord did nothing but sit on the edge, nearly touching but not quite, in a twisted imitation of a concerned parent.

Then he spoke.

“For as long as you live, never turn your back on me again, _h_ _orcrux_ ,” he spat the word, the name, the _species_. “Not in that way. Never again.”

Contrary to the dangerous warning leaving his lips, Voldemort’s fingers ghosted almost mercifully over the calf of Harry’s foot before _pulling_. Harry’s breath knocked out of his chest as he found himself abruptly on his back and gazing up at the looming figure trapping him beneath its body.

Lord Voldemort was between his legs, imprisoning Harry against the mattress while the monster’s breath came just as labored as Harry’s own. There was not much to do with this information, yet the simple proof that Harry had managed to stir in the Dark Lord such a reaction was in its own way valuable and utterly satisfying to the point of being perverse.

Yet at the same time every fiber in Harry’s being revolted at this affront, at the hands crushing his wrists. Hands that did not burn as they once had in the past, yet were still hot enough for all other touches to pale in comparison.

Meanwhile, the face so near his own persisted in being both known and unknown. There was the same loathing reflected in it, a crushing resemblance to the one of the Tom Riddle from his second year, but unmade and remade in Lord Voldemort’s image.

Harry was now truly powerless in strength yet the Dark Lord himself provided where he was lacking. The monster had always been easily swayed in regards to Harry.

“You call me horcrux but you don’t treat me like one,” Harry accused in the narrow space between their mouths, his breath grazing the wound on Voldemort’s cheek. “You call Nagini by name and even when you don’t, the word ‘horcrux’ is anything but an insult. Yet you humiliate me with your eyes, with that word — you humiliate the one who is struggling to follow _your_ orders while locked away like a slave! The same _horcrux_ who is teaching himself to be your voice, to confront your opponents and the world itself. Harry Potter, he’s called, in case you forgot. I’m not asking for a lot, but a more restrained amount of degradation would be a good start to this relationship. And if you think yourself unable to meet such expectations… why do this in the first place?”

Even before he finished, Harry knew he’d hit the nail right on the head. Lord Voldemort _hesitated_ , he was _quiet_. Lord Voldemort _observed_. His eyes appeared dark in such little light, and ominously close to Harry in all possible ways. Harry didn’t know much but any brutality seemed unlikely at this point, in this situation… At least any _physical_ brutality.

Harry was nearing suffocation or panic when the heat of Voldemort’s body finally abandoned his own as swiftly as it had come.

“Then tell me… what is it you wish to hear from me?”

Harry caught the question from his place on the bed where he now vacantly observed the ceiling while his fingers collected the monster’s blood from his own face. Why was this man always making a fool of Harry? How did he manage it so well? Harry blinked away tears ( _no_ _t a weakness_ ) and thought he may never get an answer to such a question. Seventeen years had passed and this was just how it was. It may take twice as long to even glimpse the shadows of the truth.

“I’d be lying if I said I knew what to expect of you. I don’t know what I want, but I do know what I don’t,” Harry confessed, seeing no point in telling lies.

“You wish for friendship?” Voldemort’s voice was close to his ears seeing as the man was still sitting at the edge of the bed, presumably looking down at Harry.

Focusing on the tone he talked in, a shadow of a smile fluttered across Harry’s lips and his hands clenched the crumpled sheets as he strove to conceal his tremor. “No, I don’t wish for lies.”

At last the bed creaked in the absence of the other man’s weight. Wait. _No, leave._ But wait — _Just leave, you coward._

 _“_ Then you’d better teach yourself the same if you desire for us to work.”

He knew all the wrong things to say.

Voldemort left, abandoning Harry to his futility and dreams about his wobbly future. Left him to try and find a hidden meaning behind those words… But there were none. Lord Voldemort used no masks when addressing Harry. Why bother when they knew each other so well?

The blood smearing Harry’s face should be washed. Yet that meant the possibility of facing the Dark Lord once again. So Harry did not move from his place on the bed and waited in the dark, no longer lonely. Did he wish to be? Take back his desire for company? Did he regret wishing for salvation? The rhythmic pounding in his head made it difficult to decide.

Harry closed his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Millions and millions of interminable thanks to the most wonderful beta that exists in this entire world (~˘▾˘)~ Vanillaghost. Thank you for your patience and most of all, for your time 💕💕💕

 

When the blinding rays of sunlight traced his face, Harry sighed — having been awake for quite some time already. Perhaps whole hours. _What to do, what to do?_ Wash, dress, eat, read, sleep. He could do this. He could get up. But the memory of Voldemort’s dried blood on his own face pushed him to his feet. So he proceeded through the familiar routine, with numb bones and all.

After a quick shower and huddling under far too many layers, Harry was in the process of closing the door to the living room when he realized he was not as alone as previously thought.

The Dark Lord read the Daily Prophet by the table, sipping from time to time on a cup of coffee while Harry’s breakfast awaited him as per usual. Voldemort’s right cheek no longer resembled an open wound, transformed back to the handsome yet deceiving figure of Tom Riddle. A Tom Riddle whose eyes found his at once, dropping the pretence of ignoring Harry’s presence. _If there had been any pretence to begin with._

A wave of inexplicable shame washed over Harry before he glimpsed the cat. An inky ball of fur with round yellow eyes that had passed unnoticed before when it had hidden itself between Voldemort’s legs beneath the table. Black pants, black cat. Harry blinked at the creature who stared right back in half curiosity, half fright.

_There was a cat beside the Dark Lord._

“There’s a cat next to your leg.”

The newspaper lowered as if it were only serving as an excuse until this question was asked. “Truce?”

“What, the cat is?”

“Using the cat as one, yes.”

Harry considered both the man and the tiny, seemingly innocent being. Cute, but coming from Voldemort one could never know for sure. Steadily, Harry took the seat facing the Dark Lord at the table and busied himself with his eggs and bacon. He stole looks at the man while the man shamelessly peered back as if Harry were a piece of work in a museum or an art gallery. Voldemort’s own private event where he could — All at once Harry remembered each word of that threat: ‘… y _our hole dripping with cum with each man that mounts you.’_

But in truth, only one man would have that honor.

“Is this a way of making amends?” Harry asked around a mouthful of bread. “By giving me a undoubtedly stolen cat?”

“By offering different company besides my dreadful presence with which you are so keen to despise.”

Harry nodded, not believing a single word. With eyes cast down, he watched the cat abandon Voldemort’s long legs to come near him, pretty yellow eyes begging for a treat. Sighing, Harry offered an entire piece of his bacon and the black ball of fur set on devouring its prize as if starving. Perhaps it was.

“She? He? Is there a name?”

“Likho. She,” Voldemort provided with a somehow amused expression on his handsome face.

At the Dark Lord’s uttering of her name, Likho’s tiny head orbited toward the man. The fact that she found Voldemort agreeable was proof enough of this creature’s duality. Nagini and her scales came to mind.

“Is there something I should know about the name? It’s quite a strange one with the way you say it.”

Voldemort leaned back in his chair, head tilted. “It seems you do learn.” Harry tried not to appear pleased at that. “Likho… the name certainly holds an interesting story, not necessarily a true one. I do not presume someone like you to be familiar with Slavic cultures, least of all their vast mythology.” Harry tried not to appear insulted. “As the old fool must have told you, I travelled a great deal after finishing Hogwarts. Travelled the world to places with intricate names you wouldn’t dream of being able to pronounce, and to some without a name at all. Simply… places. Places in which I learned a lot, both priceless magic… and stories. Belonging to countless fairytales, Likho is supposed to personify misfortune and a doomed fate, an evil hag hiding in the woods who feasts on human flesh. Quite a lovely story.”

What little remained of Harry’s appetite vanished by the end of the explanatory tale. The Dark Lord’s eyes remained on him, entertained by the plain discomfort and general caution.

“And you thought it a good idea to name my gift this way,” Harry softly spoke.

Voldemort faked a shrugging gesture. “Yes. I did. Knowing you, the name would have been something incredibly ridiculous… Fluffy or Puffy,” the man muttered with distaste.

Moving past such inappropriate words spoken by the Dark Lord, Harry’s tongue got the best of him, buried grief soaking back into his bones like an old yet favorite piece of clothing. “I once had an owl and I named her Hedwig. You killed her, remember?”

Grey orbs carefully traced over Harry while Likho nudged his leg. He had aimed for too much: By all evidence, the monster did not care… Yet for some reason Harry cared that he did not care.

With a sour taste in his mouth, Harry pushed back his chair and went to the window to distract himself by obsessively watching the never-changing scenery. He did not make the same mistake as yesterday. _No leaving this room without explicit permission._

The floors creaked under another weight, a fair warning before the heat of a foreign body draped over his back and a warm breath fanned his neck. _Just like yesterday on the bed, but closer._ Lord Voldemort had glued himself to Harry while what must have been lips met the curled strands of Harry’s hair. He loomed over Harry with his impossibly tall stature, and Harry found himself utterly terrified even before the Dark Lord fragmented the tense silence.

“Curious. You lament about an owl yet remain silent concerning your parents and the many others who had the misfortune of meeting my wrath, echoing the Likho from the story with reality shaping an even more twisted tale… Wouldn’t you say it’s curious?”

Now Harry wished back the tense silence, as unattainable as that was now — just like his other dreams. “You could say so. _Curious_. Curious like how you trampled over yet another one of the little things that was offering me solace after the death of my parents, leaving me utterly alone and utterly miserable. Now more than ever I feel like I’m losing it and you believe a cat named after a monster gifted by another monster will put me back together. But that’s life. That’s life with you.”

In broad daylight he wasn’t able to glimpse Voldemort’s face reflected on the window yet Harry perceived the tension in the body glued to his own. He could taste the subtle shift in the breath meeting the side of his neck while the Dark Lord peered over Harry’s shoulder, presumably at the land outside; one of nothingness where he had to chase his calm.

“Yes, curious,” the man uttered at last, not retreating an inch. “Curious how keen you are on playing the victim.” He gripped Harry’s upper arms when he made to turn around in a foolish attempt at a direct confrontation. “Oh, I know it all, so do not shy away from me… I know all about the wonderful muggles which play the loving family only in the company of strangers, of the cupboard at the bottom of the stairs and the spiderwebs, of the broken toys, and the far too big clothes you always wore. The vicious beatings. Then what? What did you do to help yourself, to punish those who wronged you? _Absolutely nothing_. You, Harry Potter, _my unfortunate horcrux_ , you had remained nothing but a weak victim. Curious how you weren’t the only one humiliated, shamed and abused by muggles… yet you’re the only one who still allows it to happen. Do not blame fate, do not blame me. Blame yourself.”

Harry’s arm was finally released, nearly colliding with the window after the no-so-gentle shove done out of utter disgust while Harry’s eyes filled with traitorous tears. Likho softly mewled while he struggled to keep his idiotic crying at bay and not turn and strike the monster who, by the sound of it, had returned to his place at the table as if nothing of importance had occurred. _Harry hated him! Hated him and his stupid cat! And his stupid words! And his stupid everything! He hated everything about him!_

He faced the uncaring man, furiously wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Why do we still clash like this when we were doing so well only moments ago? Is this what you truly call truce? If so… it seems you’ve mistaken the term.”

Voldemort sighed while Likho mewled again, damn them both. “Truce indeed. I do try. You have to become more than you are now for the plan to stand a chance. I was simply offering a helpful nudge in the right direction, speeding the inevitable learning process and forcing you out of the disgusting shell in which you’ve hidden yourself from the truth.” A smirk contradicted the implied kindness. “It was never my intention to hurt your delicate sensibilities.”

The Dark Lord really never lied to him. Harry meant nothing more than a means to an end, a necessary evil… and it hurt despite the fact that it really shouldn’t. Harry rejoined the Dark Lord at the table in silence, inwardly screaming at himself ‘ _How stupid can you be, craving something that could never be yours!’_ Something that did not exist, a mercy of sorts.

“You are mad at me,” Voldemort noted as Harry leaned down and, for the very first time, gathered Likho in his arms where the creature struggled feebly.

“Does it matter?”

The cat’s face was painted in a perpetual glare. Finally she was content with being placed on top of the table right beside his plate. Not before long, Likho the witch was on cleaning duty.

“If it makes no difference then why did you so vehemently insist on letting me know about your… inner feelings?” A nastier word must have stood on the tip of the Dark Lord’s tongue before stopped himself.

“Because I wanted you to know.”

“ _Because you wanted me to know_?” The other man’s tone of voice was viciously taunting, mocking, uttered with shaming purpose.

Likho was almost finished licking the plate by now.

“Because I wanted you to know,” Harry repeated. There was no purpose in hiding the truth from one who saw it all. “It’s only natural. We’ll have to tolerate one another for who knows how long. There’s been enough advocacy on the subject. Would it be so difficult to show a little tolerance to your own soul? Kindness? To pave a way for a better understanding?”

Grey eyes flashed at the mention of a _soul_. “This _is_ kindness. Right here between us.”

Then Harry did not dare imagine how deep his hatred must go. “Okay.”

Voldemort continued his creepy staring long before he decided the time had come for him to take his departure. Undoubtedly off to do ‘Dark Lord business’,  Harry supposed with venom.

Of course, he left the cat behind.

“You’re not sleeping with me, wicked witch,” Harry announced, heading to the other room but leaving the door ajar behind him.

 

*** * ***

 

The time for dangerous lectures had arrived without a single notice.

Dark magic. At the very least, Harry was familiar with Owle Bullock’s work… if you considered the problem of horcruxes. _Himself_.

But this book…

It was perhaps the only written text Hermione would label as _horrible_ , _awful_. _Alarming_ enough just from the memory of it. The subjects highlighted on the first few pages… exceeded expectations on awfulness, and was the most probable starting point for where a younger Tom Riddle collected the necessary information to split his soul. Well, other than Slughorn who had been more of a confirmation rather than a source.

Paradoxically, it was also the first book Harry had thoroughly read in the span of a few hours and with undeniable interest. Hermione would have been proud… but not really. Not about this. Between thick pages bound in faded black leather, Harry discovered a darkness darker than black. Such spells… How evil must you be for them to pass through your mind, much less invent such things? To want to hurt people this badly and stretch your soul beyond repair? Death appeared ordinary when faced with the tortures Owle Bullock had documented. Physical, mental, and at times blurring the fragile lines between the two. Visions of unimaginable agony erupted behind Harry’s eyelids as he read a particularly nasty curse in which you were able to deprive a being of all of his or her senses, leaving the conscious mind to lose itself for however long you wished. Wasn’t that just great?

But he did read. And it was horrifyingly fascinating.

Finishing his daily lecture sooner than expected, Harry entertained the little monster for a while. He buried his fingers in Likho’s fur while scratching at her back, between her ears, underneath her chin, humming a song he had heard on the radio some time ago. Finally, both human and cat grew bored and Likho napped before the fireplace while Harry… simply stood, staring at the glassy drapes.

A strange idea came to mind.

It was plain silliness… yet, why not? Likho was doubtful to pass judgement while Harry unmounted the translucent material shielding one window and draped it over his head like one would a fancy cloak or expensive veil. With eyes closed and arms slightly uplifted, Harry twirled before the burning fireplace as shadows danced around him. He did pirouettes, childish pirouettes to the tune of some intangible, long lost melody until —

“Did the old man fail teach you how to dance?”

Harry stood, petrified behind the frail shelter of the veil, and watched Voldemort’s cruel smirk. Harry flushed bright red. An idiotic reaction considering the daunting question that was just asked. It also seemed knocking was not yet a habit in their relationship, and perhaps it never would be.

“Dumbledore wasn’t supposed to teach me everything. Certainly not this,” Harry defended himself, fighting the urge to lower his eyes in shame at being caught in the act. “You must have known that.”

The Dark Lord hummed, advancing. He looked handsome and threatening, no longer wearing a coat but a simple white shirt tucked into black trousers. An interesting sight Harry found himself admiring in an objective way while nonetheless retreating step by step.

“So he did not… fortunately for you.”

A hand was extended, both a threat and an offer. Like any sane being, Harry refrained from contact and inched a further step back. But ever the menace, Voldemort followed. His steps echoed on the wooden floors as they closed in on his prey. Harry was on the verge of hyperventilating when there was no place left to run and his back hit the edge of the dinner table.

The Dark Lord loomed over Harry, trapping him without a single touch. “Human horcrux, why not dance with me? Out of fear? Tell you what… You can even keep the bridal veil,” he added with malicious mirth.

“It’s not a bridal veil,” argued Harry, and the other man hummed yet again. That hand still in Harry’s face which he finally obliged by taking while bracing for pain. Perhaps because murder was the farthest thing from their minds… Or not.

Grey eyes were filled with menace as their bodies brushed. Too close. When their hands joined, the fingers of Harry’s free hand dug into the other man’s shoulder while a palm intimately pressed on the small of Harry’s back. They were touching… _They were touching. They were —_

“What are you thinking about?” Voldemort asked softly, lips brushing across the crystalline cloth as he spoke.

Harry flinched at the unwanted proximity. This was too close, even for dancing. “Are you saying you don’t know?” He expected the slow smirk which spread across those lips… but not to have such a closer look at the event.

“Clever. But predictable.”

Even more predictable was how skilfully the Dark Lord proved to be at dancing, at leading, at moving to a nonexistent beat with Harry tucked in his arms. All while maintaining eye contact for a disturbing amount of time. Combined with _the touching part_ , Harry’s discomfort was downright justified.

“Are we playing word games now?”

“Of course not. Even if we were… it would have ceased long ago. I tend to win rather swiftly.”

Harry was compelled to gaze elsewhere for a moment, the material following in a blur, just like a _bridal veil._ And to follow the absurd train of thought… _did that mean_ _Lord Voldemort_ _was his husband?_ A hysterical laugh threatened to leave Harry’s chest at the thought.

Slowly, their pace lost enthusiasm but the man did not let of go of Harry. Peering through his lashes, Harry had the misfortune of meeting those grey eyes straight on.

“I’ve considered your previous words. Regarding kindness,” Voldemort announced to fill the vast space left by their silence. “Harry… Perhaps I _should_ call you Harry. Only for the purposes of credibility.” Harry must have flinched for a second time. “For it is an unquestionable truth that we need to help one another. To strive for unity and show no weakness.”

Was theft of emotions considered a crime? Because panic was stolen and replaced with fear, nearly knocking Harry off his feet. And if not, it really should be labeled as such.

“Think we might just make it to the other side?” Harry asked.

The Dark Lord’s response was both physical and verbal; a firmer hold was put on Harry’s body and the following words were spoken. “I know so. Truce?”

Harry nodded. “Truce.”

Likho squeaked, signalling her awaking. Neither one looked at the cat, both holding each other’s gazes for a moment longer. Then at last, probably satisfied by his discovery, the other man brought an end to their mockery of a dance and extinguished any body contact. He then prised the veil away from Harry’s face who told himself he did not miss Voldemort’s hands.

“Find us something to drink. On the table,” the taller man instructed, twisting the translucent veil around his fingers as if strangling a living being with a pretty rope.

 _Us_ , not _me_. A clever play, but far too early for the courtesy to be genuine.

Harry obeyed, a bottle of wine already waiting together with two empty glasses on the table. _How much the Dark Lord savored his entertaining_.

Their fingers brushed when Harry passed the monster his drink. Grey eyes were heavy, the curtain drape nowhere in sight now, and Harry burned with the need to do something with his hands so he took a sip of the wine. Voldemort’s pupils dilated, his lips parting. The bastard _was_ entertained.

“You’re obsessed with me,” Harry breathed.

Any denial did not arrive. Naturally. What for?

“Is that a statement or an accusation?”

Harry shrugged, cheeks red. “A statement,” he decided.

“You’ve only taken notice now?”

When had Harry’s question turned against him? “When did _you_ realize?”

The man played with his glass of wine, not interrupting their visual contact for even a second. It was rather unsettling.

Tucking his hands inside the sleeves of his sweater, Harry leaned against the table, breathing heavily. Lord Voldemort had drowned his entire glass by now yet did not demand another. He inched closer but not close enough to touch. Just enough to hover like a promise — one that said you should be scared for your life.

“I believed having someone buried in my mind for so many years would be proof enough. You know…” In the midst of the ensuing silence, the movement of Voldemort’s hand was monumental even before fingers clasped Harry’s chin. They were touching. Again. The monster was touching him. “Now… hurry to your room and get dressed. Clothes are waiting for you on the bed so make yourself presentable. I believe the time for another lesson has arrived. Perhaps it might even be entertaining.”

_It_ _’_ _s not my room. And you should let me go to make your wish come true._

Blinking down at Harry, the taller man finally released his hold. Not that the touch was anything but gentle. But the intent, the unnamed emotion in his eyes… It told an entirely different story.

Once the fingers retreated, Harry staggered away from the table to head for _the room_. Meanwhile the traitorous Likho did not follow as she usually did, preferring to stay behind with the Dark Lord.

 

*** * ***

 

That imbecilic oaf would not get the message to stop eating like a pig. Honestly, how an ancient artefact such as the Sorting Hat placed Goyle into Slytherin was beyond Draco’s comprehension. _Of all people._ However, the current problem at hand was not his comrade’s usual degrading behavior, but rather the inappropriate occasion for it.

The Ministry gathering hosted in one of London’s fancier halls was no place to eat. They had other things to do. _Important things_. Draco abandoned his unsuccessful attempts at making subtle signals to Goyle and pushed away from the wall before the boy thought it a good idea to come his way.

After the nightmare that had been the previous party… Well, Draco was just glad it wasn’t his family that had organized the whole event. The fiasco with Dumbledore had been punishment enough even without the Dark Lord getting stabbed in the face by an Order member posing as a waiter at a supposedly secluded event filled with Dark Wizards. A suicidal mission from the start, to be honest, and a frankly desperate attempt to put an end to what will be monumental change. The attacker must have known that even if the Dark Lord had died there was no way he could have gotten away, not alive. But the Dark Lord had not died and the tense event had descended into a macabre show of compulsory attendance where the man’s limbs had been separated from his body in front of everyone. And that was before the Dark Lord had commenced in his interrogation.

After that, no one had been keen to return to mundane entertainment when the hosts’ insides also decorated the marble floors.

How Goyle could forget such an incident and stuff his mouth…

Well, this occasion was rather different. Individuals of distinct political affiliations were present at this apparently peaceful party. Any gruesome murders seemed unlikely.

Politics, however, was another story.

The orders were simple. Blend in and make brand new acquaintances — ones, particularly, on the Light side. Draco huffed, witnessing his parents do just that. There had been no talking to mudbloods just yet but… the Dark Lord would appreciate the fake smile plastered on his father’s face nonetheless.

That’s when he felt it.

_The Dark Mark._

Suddenly Draco and all the Death Eaters littered around the vast chamber became stiff, backs straight like an arrow while all eyes darted to the entrance where they saw —

 _Bloody Potter_.

No matter how obsessively Draco blinked, or shook his head from left to right, the image remained the same.

Fugitive Harry Potter was here, dressed fancier than Draco himself, and in the company of the imposing figure of the Dark Lord. An unknown man to all besides his Death Eaters.

The Chosen One and his parents’ killer stepped forward together in unison and by instinct Draco inched backward, searching for his father’s gaze only to find it already on him. Countless words transpired with a single gaze before all three Malfoys headed to greet the unannounced and unwanted guests. Draco thought he was going to be sick, yet taking out his wand for even such a minor purpose had the chances of being misinterpreted in a great number of ways.

_Potter was here!_

“Hello,” _Bloody_ _Potter_ _-who-_ _no_ _-longer-wore-glasses_ greeted, as if it were the most natural thing in the whole world. “My companion and I are extremely grateful for the invitation.”

Invitation? Everyone blatantly stared at the exchange, not believing their own eyes. At last, the Boy Who Lived had appeared. Here, in the company of Malfoys and with the Dark Lord by his side.

Draco had no doubt Potter was playing a dangerous game now.

All politeness and purpose, Draco affected calm control as hands linked in greeting and his fingers dug into Potter’s skin harder than was socially acceptable. When he raised his gaze again, however, Draco found grey eyes fixed on him. The Dark Lord’s smirk was perfectly measured.

“Tom Gaunt. A honor.”

The Dark Lord did not specify for whom.

Draco exhaled and watched a nearly imperceptible flinch escape Lucius at the mere touch of the Dark Lord’s skin. When Draco’s own dreadful turn to exchange greetings with the man arrived, he found his previous gesture to Potter returned. Once released, Draco let his hand rest by his side again and felt the place where those nails had buried into his skin. _As if repaying a debt_. _Or wanting r_ _evenge_.

“The pleasure is all ours,” drawled Narcissa, eyes darting between the pair, from one to the other. “I hope you’ll enjoy this evening.”

“We will,” responded Potter rather warmly.

Then they departed with a pointed look from the Dark Lord and Draco was left to stare as each pair of eyes in the enormous hall glued themselves to the figure of the Chosen One whose arrest warrant had been coincidentally retracted some weeks ago. Draco had had questions back then, but now… Perhaps Potter had been in the Dark Lord’s clutches all along? By why alive? It stood against the Dark Lord’s wishes and yet… here they were. Together.

Inching back toward the wall, throat clenched to the point of suffocation, Draco’s gaze returned to the figure clad in dark blue. To Potter, who was serenely talking to Kingsley Shacklebolt. An Auror! He was having a conversation with an Auror right under the Dark Lord’s gaze! And yet… Draco had seen that precise moment when, with a lingering touch to Potter’s forearm, the taller man had deserted the boy to move into the middle of the crowd. Paradoxically, green eyes followed his retreating figure as if wishing he would come back. After a brief moment of appearing utterly lost, Potter’s thin face then transformed back into the peaceful mask he wore before.

Draco’s thoughts were a tornado of the possible and impossible. Of the madness of it all. “Draco, control yourself,” Lucius hissed somewhere close to him.

Unfortunately, both their focuses were on Potter and the Dark Lord.

“I don’t understand,” Draco uttered. “He’s here, and with _him —_ ”

“Do keep your voice down. Our Lord always knows what he’s doing, even if — even if the Potter boy is involved. Now smile for the masses and do stop your idiotic housemate before he causes a scene. The buffet has suffered enough attention from him already.”

On that they could agree.

Making his way to Goyle in an way that was agonisingly slow, Draco passed his mother and her brief but warm touch to his hand was the only reassurance he needed. With his back a little straighter, Draco anchored himself in calmness. It went rather well from then on…

Up until he saw the startling dark blue of Potter’s clothes disappear down a deserted hallway.

As naturally as possible, Draco followed. Casting a charm to hide his presence, he could barely contain his newly-found glee. Here was a chance to prove Potter was not to be trusted no matter what. There would surely be a reward in store soon.

Draco ended up at the doors of a circular balcony. A tower, really. Cold wind ruffled his styled hair and Draco barely refrained from sighing in annoyance when the rhythmic sounds of steps stole his attention. In a slow circle he walked, observing his surroundings shadowed by the moon. A wise decision, really, considering the sight that met Draco’s eyes at the end of his short-lived mission.

Bloody Potter was not alone, his figure joined by the Dark Lord’s in staring at the night sky.

“Why?” Potter asked.

“Why not?”

The Dark Lord’s voice did not sound the same. It took minutes to realize the lack of threat in his tone. Instead it was replaced with… tranquility, or something close to it. Draco would be lying to deny how disturbing it sounded. With his back against the wall, he debated running away. But… secrets awaited before him. _They_ stood before him.

“It just seems an unnecessary risk allowi—”

“Young Malfoy,” the Dark Lord abruptly called, and _there_ was the threat — it had quickly soaked back into his voice. “This is the second time you’ve tested my patience this evening. I assure you, there won’t be a third. Now run back to your father.”

Draco did not need to be told twice, his fear more tangible than his own body when he fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are more than well received 🌈
> 
> on tumblr @lordmarvoloriddle


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Millions and millions of interminable thanks to the most wonderful beta that exists in this entire world (~˘▾˘)~ Vanillaghost. Thank you for your patience and most of all, for your time 💕💕💕

  

 

Snow crunched beneath their shoes, bringing memories to the surface. Except _back then_ Harry had at least slept during the interminable nights. Now he walked behind Voldemort inside a horrifying yet pretty cave carved out of ice. “Where are you taking me?” Harry had asked upon Apparating back from the party only to find himself in the dreaded frozen lands from which he had once tried to escape — and still tried, even now.

“You'll see,” Voldemort replied enigmatically, which only made the entire affair infinitely more enticing.

So wait it was.

Meanwhile Harry worried about the test that masqueraded as a slightly disturbing party. Had he passed? He thought so… Prior to the incident with Draco, Harry had done exceptionally well. He had held functional conversations with both Light and Dark wizards and witches, even the alarmed Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Harry grimaced.

Lying to the man’s face about his own whereabouts and his general, unexpected presence at the party had been tremendously difficult. _Yeah, Kingsley, the Dark Lord and I reached an agreement_. _No, Kingsley_ _, it_ _’_ _s perfectly fine that I_ _’_ _m here, thank you very much_.

Even Harry did not believe himself. So he cringed.

Surely what was left of the Order would be having a meeting by now, where Harry’s loyalties were dissected and deemed unworthy — _treacherous_ , even. Not to mention what the front page of the Daily Prophet would say. There was nothing to do about that though, which was surely Voldemort’s plan all along.

So the test must have been passed with flying colors.

After Harry had been led into the depths of the cave, the sight before his eyes severed all worries from the root. Off-white stone walls embraced a wide pool of water so blue it made the sky look bleak in comparison. Mist rose from the surface, signalling the high temperature. Harry’s breath came out in puffs, a paradox of scorching and numbing as he took in the splendorous image. His frozen bones were left to relish in the promise of warmth.

And then the Dark Lord discarded his clothes.

Harry’s eyes went comically wide as the man abandoned the fancy materials of his suit in the dirt, revealing a strong chest with even broader shoulders which Harry had noticed many times before, along with the muscles that hid beneath the expensive clothes. Blueish veins decorated bare arms as Voldemort worked on his pants and Harry’s gaze immediately travelled up, utterly petrified.

 _The Dark Lord was naked._ “You — ! What are you — ?”

“Going in the water, Harry. What else?”

Harry looked back to his source of panic only when the sound of rippling water met his ears. His arms were wrapped tightly around himself as if _he_ were the bare one. The crystalline water came to the Dark Lord’s neck, offering the naked skin a strange glow. Grey eyes fell on him, daring for the unspeakable.

_But the Dark Lord was naked!_

“Are you going to come in or wait for the first signs of hypothermia to arrive?” the man asked, finding some kind of rock shelf to use as an underwater bench — or perhaps devising one for himself.

In spite of the madness of the situation, it was not a dream. Not by far, Harry decided with dread and bright crimson cheeks. An unclad Lord Voldemort was genuinely expecting him to strip before his very eyes. And why not? It was only the two of them in here and the man had already seen him naked. Had undressed Harry after his fall in the frozen lake. Had held his body in that tub for who-knew-how-long with his own two hands. What difference would this one act make?

But the Dark Lord was looking at him, knowing extremely well that Harry gazed at him too. It was perverse!

Goosebumps prickled his skin and Harry reluctantly complied, far too clumsy in his stripping to paint a worthy picture for the sole onlooker. It would be the first time someone witnessed this sight of him. He hesitated with his underwear but when it came off at last, the sole thought on his troubled mind was getting warm by any means necessary. Harry nearly ran to the pond, swinging his legs over the edge.

A hand was offered as a dubious favour, cutting the abrupt entrance into the pool short. Harry accepted and was pulled into the blue unknown, his entire body submerging into the uncomfortably hot water.

Suddenly the memory from the lake surfaced and his body jerked, free hand blindly clawing at Lord Voldemort’s shoulder as he brought his head back to the surface.

Several deep breaths later, Harry gulped like an undead creature would, gazing through wet lashes at the man holding him up, holding him alive. All rationality left him for a moment. It was daunting how unfairly handsome this man was; such exquisite features so close to Harry’s own. With wet hair pushed back from his forehead and droplets of water sliding down sharp cheekbones. This man glueing Harry to him was electrifying, as was every line where their bodies met.

Borders were crossed one after another. They were long past a plain touch and quickly wandering into the unfamiliar territory of an embrace with how intimate the contact was, with naked skin on naked skin. And this was the Dark Lord, the monster who had murdered his parents in cold blood, had torn his life to shreds before it had even begun.

And yet.

Not bothering to hide his shudder at their closeness, Harry’s voice appeared to lose its unique skill — monumentally conscious of the hand that enveloped his. Meanwhile his own fingers brushing the bare shoulder as if to make sure this was reality. Fear spread, powerful and deep. Not a fear of violence, but of something worse, all while Voldemort observed. What was it that he had witnessed?

“See?” The Dark Lord spoke when the quiet became unbearable. “We can be something else besides mortal enemies for a change.”

The nagging of Harry’s thoughts did not allow such an easy acceptance. “You mean something like friends?” he asked.

“No. I do not want us to be friends.”

Harry’s palm once again smoothed over Voldemort’s left shoulder and chills ran down his spine while the water grazed his chin in ripples. _He was_ _fine_. It altered nothing. _He did not care, not really._ “Then what is it that you want?”

The man smirked, utterly menacing and devastatingly striking, fingers grazing Harry’s own. “Everything.”

That couldn’t be taken back. Everything.

_Your hole dripping with cum_ _…_

Those five damned words repeated in Harry’s already clouded mind like a promise, a promise now forcing his limbs to tingle, not from fear but from —  

 _No_.

What would everyone say if they knew what he was thinking? _No, no, no._ Dare he be that sick? For this monster? For his attractive nakedness?

But the monster was handsome and the blood on his hands did not taint the clear blue water.

Dare he?

Fortunately the opportunity for any regrettable acts or words were cut short as Voldemort pulled and arranged Harry’s uncooperative limbs into a sitting position on the makeshift rock ledge. Limbs that were glued together to preserve Harry’s last shred of dignity. At least the touching had ceased.

“I was set to believe this would make you… less unhappy.”

Harry had no other choice but to turn his gaze on the other man and lost himself in all that grey intensity. So damned handsome! Perhaps he was a laughing stock for fate after all.

“I’m… grateful. For this, and the party. Really,” Harry said, and cleared his throat, the act drawing the Dark Lord’s gaze which slid up and down while the man leaned back, stretched his long legs, and relaxed… Or at least mimicked the state to perfection.

 _Don_ _’t_ _look down,_ Harry thought. _Don’t look down at his —_

“What clouds your mind?” Voldemort inquired dangerously close to Harry’s ear, not sounding interested in the slightest.

Side to side they sat, water up to their middle. Not brushing skin, not doing anything of the sort at all.

“Did I do well back at the party? Or at least somewhere along the lines of ‘acceptable’…?” Harry asked, a half-lie in response to what was on his mind. He searched the handsome face for an answer. “Did I play my part to your liking in this ongoing war?”

“ _War_ ,” the man laughed mockingly, startling Harry. “I’ve seen war and this does not deserve the name. Cease the useless fretting, your performance was satisfactory enough for a first time. The hoard of fools are already guessing our game but resistance is futile. You _are_ the Boy Who Lived, after all. Manipulation is in your hands, at your disposal.”

An accusation more than anything.

Tucking his knees up to his chest, Harry dutifully nodded. The only reasonable thing to do in the grand scheme of things, it seemed. “What do you mean by what you said about war? About how… this wasn’t one?” he asked. The surreal sentiment of the entire situation briefly passed his mind. They seemed just like two ordinary people, perhaps old acquaintances, who knew a disturbing amount of information about one another as they sat and talked. Sat naked and talked about foreboding aspects of their intertwined lives.

“Do you know what took place in my youth?”

Darkness lurked in Voldemort’s eyes while nothingness preyed from all sides.

“Grindelwald?” Harry tried for the obvious answer, Dumbledore following in his mind nearly instantly.

“Worse. It was an untamed beast, one that was stirred and fed by muggles. The second World War. It earned the title of a war through hard labor, countless bodies, and the unspeakable terror in the face of demise. At times the London of now seems a whole other city when I walk its streets. An _alive_ one.”

Harry gazed down at the water, deep in thought. How easy it was to forget the Dark Lord had been alive back then. In a world he had only read about in books or heard about from elderly chatter in rundown muggle cafes where you could get something to eat and drink for a cheaper price than was socially acceptable. This man had lived that very life.

His attempt at a voluntary conversation was driven by curiosity but there was far more to be considered. The chance of a civilised sort of truce, not the kind in which insults prowled not far by. So Harry acted.

“How was it for you? All I know about War World Two is from books, just like everyone else who gives a damn. But how was it for you? And don’t brush me off,” he added in a nearly pleading tone when it became obvious Voldemort was not keen in sharing such an intimate part of his life.

_Not that he was ever keen about anything else._

“Do you truly claim to have this much interest in my personal life? Perhaps you do, perhaps you don’t. But your interest must have manifested from a cunning desire to learn more about your enemy… This, I can understand.”

The bitter retort lacked the usual venom.

“What can I do?” Harry defended himself. “The two of us going on different paths do not fit in the same picture any more. Perhaps they never did. And enemies? Do you really believe we can be that? Even now, after all your speeches about a common goal… or common means, when we share a soul and all that?”

Letting Harry down appeared to be turning into a habit, yet this one time a surprise was in store. They looked at one another, perhaps at the mention of a soul shared by two, and shadows played on their faces as they pondered on hidden meanings.

“At least you did listen. Fine, boy, what do you wish to know?”

 _Boy._ That was a new one.

“Anything. Whatever you want to say. I don’t really know any specifics…”

“Terrible is as good a word as any to describe it,” the man disclosed, wrath creeping into his tone while his expression never changed. “Those years were a test of savagery, human being against human being. The orphanage was more crowded than ever, food supplies more scarce than ever… and then the air-raids commenced. Venturing outside to fetch water and barely finding anywhere to place your foot between all those dismembered corpses posed quite a challenge. Naturally, all eventually got used to the sight. Even to the taste of cadavers in their throats.”

“You weren’t allowed to stay at Hogwarts over the summer,” Harry’s memories supplied, the image of a far younger Tom Riddle relating his wish to another headmaster, only for a dismissive refusal to be served.

The request carried another weight now.

There was no trace of surprise on the man’s handsome face at Harry's disclosure. He knew all about Dumbledore’s attempts at dissecting his life. The Gaunts, the Riddle’s, the horcruxes. Too late to pretend anything else and get away in one piece.

“Someone must have thought a lesson in humility needed to be served,” the Dark Lord bitterly added.

“How disappointed he must have been after witnessing the result,” Harry let out before he could stop himself.

Lord Voldemort nearly smiled. “Oh, he was. Waiting… but the old man forgot. Eternity is measured in no time.”

The Dark Lord appeared to no longer be talking to Harry. Haunted by memories, most likely. He and Harry were both thinking about his words now. Perhaps this was hard for the two of them… but for different reasons entirely.

Hugging his knees closer to his chest, Harry struggled to banish those nightmares from his mind. He had enough of his own. _Corpses littering the streets —_ and the man beside him had witnessed it all. Had Tom Riddle been afraid then? It felt inappropriate to ask such a thing.

Lord Voldemort put an end to their little trip after a moment by getting out of the pool. He dressed in continued silence before Harry followed and stared nowhere but at his own toes. Yet he thought he perceived the weight of a gaze on the base of his neck.

 _Whatever._ The Dark Lord was always staring at him, naked or not.

With a flick of the man’s wrist, they were perfectly dry and ready to go.

“When will you be back?” Harry found himself asking once they were on the frozen porch of the cabin again. After they had Apparated, his arm had been let go of as if it burned.

With fat snowflakes in his black hair, Voldemort considered him with cold eyes. “I have crucial matters to attend to,” he replied without enthusiasm. “Why? Are you lonely even with Likho?”

Harry kind of wanted to hit him. Hands in the pockets of his coat, he resisted the unspeakable temptation. “Just asking.” _Just lying_. “I guess I wanted to know when I should be finished with the next book.”

“Read it. It should be no more than three days until I return.” Voldemort took two steps back, slow and measured. “Goodbye, Harry.”

With a soundless _pop_ he disappeared, leaving Harry alone in the night and already aching for the man’s cruel presence. Funny, Harry thought, how the very person who had placed him in darkness was also the only one extending a helping hand. But was it a lie that promised a fall? Or a touch meant to hold him up?

Harry went back into the house.

 

*** * ***

 

When their destination came into view, Hermione elbowed Ron who managed to keep a straight face and his wand concealed as they followed the goblin to Bellatrix Lestrange’s vault.

Plainly put, this was madness.

But desperate times called for desperate measures and, in the end, the simplest approach had been Ron’s idea. Hermione had considered one plan after another and ruled them all out; all complicated plans that had no real chance of succeeding. Yet his alternative had been… shockingly plausible.

With a simple Imperio on a goblin, here they were. Steps away from You-Know-Who’s horcrux while they were supposed to visit the Weasley’s vault as stated at the entrance. She and Ron may be fugitives from the law but Gringotts did not bother with the crimes of their customers, claiming such things as having no involvement with the establishment itself. Even bad customers were customers, Ron had assured her long before stepping foot into the bank. And how right he had been.

The goblin whose name she had not bothered to learn stopped in his tracks, signalling the end of their journey. The dark witch’s vault appeared the same as the rest. Or at least it did from outside.

“Is this… it?” Ron asked, somewhat doubtful.

“It certainly is, Mister Weasley,” the goblin answered, scratching a long trail on the immense door in an almost yearning manner _._ “Lady Lestrange’s vault, as you’ve so kindly requested. Come, come along now.”

It was as if the locket itself waited in the darkness only so it could slowly shift into light. Hermione caught Ron’s blue eyes, knowing he felt it as well. Here, in the midst of enough gold to feed not one but two countries, a horcrux lay hidden.

“Anything else we should know about this room?” Hermione asked.

When the goblin did not answer, Ron insisted, “Answer her.”

“Anything that is touched by someone who is not Lady Lestrange is set to multiply. Again and again and once again. A lot of trinkets we shall see, so we shall.”

Hermione’s gaze traveled up to the piles of gold already inundating the vast chamber. “Then we’ll have to aim with purpose.”

In spite of the gold, darkness lurked in the very air she breathed — the horcrux; the evilness of You-Know-Who's soul. _For Harry_ , Hermione reminded herself and, careful not to touch a single thing, slithered further into the vault. She left Ron and the goblin behind to follow this darkness and the subtle pulsing, rotten scent. To Hermione’s immense surprise, she caught a glimpse of it rather soon.

The golden cup waited innocently, gleaming as only the most precious of trinkets could gleam and just as the locket had done.

“Lestrange?” She heard the low voice say as if caught in a dream. “Oh, she’s busy as we speak, must be. Extremely busy. What with the Dark Lord, the false savior, the fuss at the party… Little Potter has changed a lot more than his clothing, I hear.”

“What? What do you mean? _Harry?_ ” Ron asked. “ _Harry Potter?_ ”

But Hermione was only half-listening to Ron’s increasing shouts. The cup was right before her eyes, carefully tucked away and hidden like the menace it was. There was no way to reach it without stepping on gold and jewelry. All of it as good of a makeshift staircase there was. But then —

“Harry? Yes… Mister Potter. He strolled into a Ministry gathering hosted by the Malfoys two days ago in the company of a Mister Gaunt. Have you not read the papers? Seen the pictures? Anyone with half a brain witnessed how smiley the Boy-Who-Lived was. He allegedly declared a truce with the Dark Lord before leaving in the company of his gentleman friend. It has been the talk of our community for some weeks now.”

“Lies!” Ron yelled at the same time Hermione lost her footing and a trinket of some odd shape multiplied after coming into contact with her knee. Her breath cut short and it was as if she was falling into a black hole with nothing to hold onto.

_Surely it was a lie._

Yet the goblin could not lie, not under the Imperius curse. _Had Harry — ?_ No, everything had an explanation. You-Know-Who must have forced him, threatened him. Yes, that would make perfect sense. And the cup… There was only one way to get to it.

“Ron! Ask him for a secluded Apparition spot and be ready to run.”

Without waiting for a reply, she stepped over the golden coins and lunged for the horcrux. Her fingers closed around the cup’s handle as she fell into a sea of jewelry that pushed at her body from all sides. Somehow, while struggling not to be buried, she managed to escape the drowning pressure. But it proved futile as the sea of gold followed her with each touch.

“Oh dear,” gasped their unwilling caretaker as Ron hauled him up by his underarms. The three of them fled the room just as the waves of jewelry crashed against the closing doors.

There was blessed silence for a moment until the horcrux pulsed in her hand as if breathing, and Hermione knew. “He’s coming,” she whispered to a gasping Ron.

The redhead's sharp breathing ceased. He gripped her hand and started running down a dark corridor, hopefully to the place from where they could vanish and leave the bewildered goblin behind. The complete silence of their surroundings unnerved Hermione and no matter how many times she glanced over her shoulder, he was not there. Not yet. But soon.

“We’re almost there. Almost.”

Moments — or perhaps hours — later they reached a simple stone-wrapped chamber. Ron’s fingers closed around hers with force, preparing for Apparition when the cup began to burn her hand. Hermione looked behind her for the last time, clutching onto the horcrux for dear life, as her feet left the floor.

There he was — stepping into the light, dark and deathly; a man whose face she need not recognize to know his dreadful identity.

He held a severed head in his left hand… the head of the nameless goblin. With bloody fingers, the Dark Lord raised his wand yet it was already too late. No matter the charms placed on the cup, he had not been able to arrive instantly, least of all arrive before they had. Just like any other man, he had to run.

And just like any other man, he was left to his own screams of futility.

Hermione smiled despite the pain she felt for the unfortunate goblin.

 

 

*** * ***

 

 

“You’re such a creepy cat. But of course you are. _He_ was the one who picked you out and brought you here.”

Harry was having a conversation with Likho as she rested on his lap. Having a conversation with an ordinary, _normal_ , cat that was not McGonagall in disguise. The early years of his childhood were fuzzy, but what was that belief that said talking to oneself was the first sign of madness?

Did Lord Voldemort ever hold conversations with himself?

Harry would surely be cursed for suggesting such thing. Or perhaps not. With their so-called ‘truce’ in effect, guarding themselves and their basic instincts was to be expected while navigating unfamiliar territory. But how far was too far? Harry was unwilling to find the answer to this particular question.

Instead, it was time to return to Karl Marx; the assigned author for the day.

 _The oppressed are allowed once every few years to decide which particular representatives of the oppressing class are to represent and repress them_.

Harry harbored a profound distaste for this book. Which is why he jumped at the chance to place a bookmark between the pages as soon as the front door creaked open. Closing the book, he raised his eyes to the Dark Lord, looking forward to his simultaneously cruel yet much desired presence.

But with just one glance, Harry could tell something was wrong. Even more so than usual. The hard set to the man’s jaw was proof enough, as were the sharp eyes that were terribly focused as he closed in on the dining table. He discarded his coat, throwing it on the arm of the chair with more force than was necessary and making it stumble.

“Long day?” Harry asked.

Voldemort offered no straightforward answer or reaction. He simply sat down and pinned his gaze somewhere in the distance, presumably on the wall, while his mind went elsewhere.

“Your… _friends…_ stole a part of my soul from me,” the Dark Lord spoke at last with venom creeping into his tone.

“Back then? But I’m right here with you now,” Harry uttered with a furrowed brow. He released Likho from the cage of his arms as he sat cross legged in front of the ever-burning fireplace. The little traitor padded straight to the other man’s feet where she went ignored. _Serve_ _s her right,_ Harry thought before his eyes met Voldemort’s. The other man gazed at him strangely. As if… as if _something_.

“Not you, Harry. Not _then_. The redhead and the girl stole _another_ horcrux.”

The walls appeared to suddenly close in around Harry as he registered the man’s words. Then he took notice of the blood decorating the Dark Lord’s fingers and stilled. An invisible weight began to crush his chest. “Are they—”

“Gone. Ran just as soon as I arrived.”

Harry was happy and there was no way to hide it — nor was there a reason to. There were no secrets left to hide. Yet he remained quiet as Voldemort measured him in turn, finally choosing to clean his bloody hand while Harry fretted before his very eyes.

Ron and Hermione were safe and somehow together. And they had managed to steal the Dark Lord’s horcrux. Had they not read the papers? Did they not know? Well, even on the off-chance they had, they would not have believed Harry’s alliance with Voldemort. It made perfect sense. Hermione had seen him being kidnapped with her own eyes. She must have thought she was doing the world a favour by moving forward with the horcrux hunting.

In turn, Harry’s actions seemed thoroughly despicable.

“Why are you telling me this? What do you want me to do?”

“At this very moment? To make me a coffee.”

It wasn’t a request.

As stars hung themselves outside the windows, and Likho slept by the Dark Lord’s feet, Harry boiled water in the kitchen while the man looked over Karl Marx’s book. When Harry returned with a cup, the Voldemort motioned for him to join him, wandlessly summoning another chair. Harry sat, muffling his jealousy at the use of magic as he pushed the cup between them on the table. Voldemort took it, bringing it to his lips.

“You’ll burn your tongue,” Harry warned without thinking.

“I enjoy liquids at high temperatures. Do not fret.”

Harry wasn’t fretting. He was dying of curiosity. Why had Voldemort told him about the theft of his horcrux? “There must be a reason why you shared the information about my friends,” he insisted after moments of complete silence and the Dark Lord busying himself with burning the insides of his mouth.

“You know me so well,” Voldemort drawled with sarcasm and malice. “But you are right, I do want something. I want my horcrux back safe in my hands. Just as you are.”

“You want me to get it back.”

“I do. You see… Me hunting the two fugitives will be pointless, as there will be no results in the short run. But you… they’ll jump at any chance to reunite with the lost part of their precious golden trio. Besides, you would be doing them a favor; the two will remain alive after giving back my horcrux. Willingly, that is. So, Harry, do we have a deal?”

“We do,” Harry responded at once. “There’s only one problem. How I am supposed to find two fugitives who don’t want to be found?” He realized he was watching Voldemort’s hands, his now clean fingers as they curled around the handle of the coffee mug.

“The day after tomorrow you’ll start making public appearances as my official representative at the Ministry. If I’m not mistaken, they should then establish contact themselves. Shouldn’t take long at all.”

Harry nodded, not eager at all in spite of the promised freedom. Instead he was afraid. For Ron and Hermione. At not being good enough and disappointing the Dark Lord.

While he fretted, the Dark Lord had finished his coffee and stretched out his legs, disturbing Likho in the process though the little monster did not appear bothered. Instead she stretched herself out before nuzzling against Voldemort’s legs. Harry’s breath caught in his throat yet the small ball of fur remained unharmed.

It was time to change the subject.

“Did you ever have any other pets besides Nagini?”

“No, why?”

"Just feels like it. Besides, Likho likes you and you must have liked her too if she caught your eye in the first place. You must have liked her enough that you even brought her to me.”

_S_ _t_ _o_ _l_ _e her, more like_ _._

Curiosity took over in Voldemort’s grey eyes. “Is that what you think? That I liked her?” The tone was mocking. "I did not. She was simply there. It was convenient. And she was quiet compared to the rest.”

Basking in ignorance, Likho kept circling the Dark Lord like a shark.

“Yet she likes you. Your arms were the first to hold her.”

Voldemort sighed, yet to Harry’s surprise he did not abandon the topic. “And what about you? Any other pets besides the snowy owl and our Likho?”

The question lacked interest and consideration; a mere consideration born from Harry’s previous curiosity. But it was a question nonetheless.

“No, my muggle family don’t exactly… approve of them. They are not kind people. But, naturally, you already knew that.”

“It only tells me how odd you are for not exacting revenge.”

“Like what you did at your father’s house?”

They were in dangerous territory now and the sudden silence from Voldemort confirmed it. They knew so much about one another, yet when faced by the fact, they remained uncomfortable. Pretending to be someone else appeared to be a hobby of theirs, the mystery serving as a shield.

“I suppose the circumstances were different,” the man finally replied, pointedly avoiding Harry’s last words. “But, onto another subject, I cannot help but notice a certain change in your behavior.”

“What do you mean?”

“All these roles you play,” came the answer.

“What roles?” asked Harry, genuinely confused.

“Oh, but you know. A bright boy such as yourself would have already figured out the answer. There’s the one role you’ve established after our mutual discussions, and the other that is more interpreted, more subtle. One that is willing to play house. The spouse awaiting his husband, eager to trade stories about their day.”

“You're not my husband," Harry replied with dry lips, quick to defend himself against something that did not exist.

The man’s grin was sharp and measured. “Do you see any harm in the childish game?”

“I didn’t take you as the type to engage in games of any kind,” Harry said. But his lack of an answer did not escape Voldemort’s notice.

“We all require distractions from time to time… But on that note, what did you learn from today’s lecture?”

“That Karl Marx is an ass who makes groundless presumptions about human nature?”

Harry’s cheek was tolerated and even rewarded with a smirk.

“Very good. He should have known that people would never be willing to share. But even bad example can be good examples.”

“I guess.” A brief hesitation. “Have you… have you had dinner?”

“No, Harry. I was busy with the murder of a goblin and the tracking of your friends. Why? Are you offering to cook for me?”

Harry nodded, mouth dry.

And so they ate together for the first time, Likho pacing underneath the table while Harry fed her tiny slices of meat from time to time. Voldemort simply watched, allowing the jarring lack of manners.

Looking at the bigger picture, in that very moment, he and the Dark Lord — no, _this man —_ were a perfect picture of domesticity. _An_ _unhappy_ _family_. Was this what they had become?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Millions and millions of interminable thanks to the most wonderful beta that exists in this entire world (~˘▾˘)~ Vanillaghost. Thank you for your patience and most of all, for your time 💕💕💕

 

Perched high on the podium, Potter surveyed the crowd with a scrutiny bordering on arrogance.

Draco’s pure blood boiled in his veins at the sight yet there was nothing he could do to punish or flee from it. Winter vacation had stretched on for a few more days and it would have been extremely rude not to accompany his parents to witness Potter’s first official public appearance since the _Undesirable Number One_ fiasco.

And now there was this obvious charade he was forced to attend. As if they were going to witness the addressing of a leader. A powerless one.

Potter took the few stairs leading up to the podium one after another before soundly addressing his thanks to a grim Kingsley Shacklebolt who awaited at the bottom. Not many words were exchanged. Of course there weren’t. The Order and those belonging to the Light side were at a loss; their savior had deserted the losing side.

“I see many different faces gathered here today,” Potter spoke all of a sudden, his voice magically amplified. “We may already be on the right path.” His gaze briefly flickered to a point in the gathered crowd — to somewhere just past them — where a male figure sat taller than most. He was beside Draco’s father and slightly in front of everyone else.

_The Dark Lord was here and bloody Potter was stealing not-_ _so_ _-innocent looks at him._

Something monumental was taking place right before Draco’s eyes, perhaps making history.

“Naturally, countless questions must be waiting on countless lips. About me, about the Dark Lord… But they don’t truly matter. He and I may be different but our goal is the same. To establish peace in our world. Something which everyone wishes for. Peace without unnecessary bloodshed, without war, without chaos. There are other choices we can make… and we both choose life.”

There was a taut silence as if everyone were fighting their own urge to speak out.

“I’m going to tell you a story,” Potter went on after his prolonged pause. “About people. People like me and you… people like the Dark Lord. All resembling one another yet divided by an invisible line — a wall, if you will. On one side there was light magic and, on the other, dark. It was a war waged in the name of protection, we were told. For one century after another we were told one side were the heroes and one the villains. You can guess which where which, because each side has their own version. It’s comfortable and easy having an enemy, knowing him, and naming him in a single breath. Hating him and loving the wall. But the wall is a lie. It doesn't exist and never really did. Light magic doesn’t exist and neither does Dark magic. There is only magic, and intention. We can kill a person with our wands alone by using it as a stick through the eye. But do we then divide our wands into good and evil?

No, we do not. It’d be quite ridiculous. Instead we murder one another for nothing and wage wars over a non-existent divide while striving for the same goal: Peace. But peace should not be about the future, about feeding ourselves pretty lies and preaching the fate for those who aren’t even born yet. It should be about us, about those who are already living. It may seem selfish, but not as absolute a sacrifice. Don’t we deserve to be happy? To see our friends and family live? To find love? To be with your children and not selfishly abandon them while telling yourselves you did the right thing? I want this for all of us and, as strange as it may appear, so does the Dark Lord. Otherwise we wouldn’t be having this discussion in the first place.

I plead for your consideration and cooperation. Be selfish and chase you desires because no one else is going to chase them for you. So, one last question: Why stand divided when we’re all the same? Why pit family against family when it’s all for absolutely nothing? We can change this. Not alone, but together. No longer weak, but strong. Why lose when we can all win? And I firmly believe we are all winning now.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco watched the Dark Lord. He wore a pointed stare which went unnoticed in the quiet storm. It was one laced with a predatory intent, as well as satisfaction. There was a shameless pride, too, which emerged. He was visibly content at this speech and was the first to clap his hands when it was over. Then, like venom, the gesture spread until the enormous hall of the Wizengamot boomed with applause.

A black hole swallowed the insides of Draco’s stomach. But there was no denying that Potter’s words had hit their target — or had they been the Dark Lord’s which did? Was there any difference at this point?

“This is your Chosen One defending you,” he heard his father whisper to the leader of magical Britain. If there was an answer, it was lost to the increasing uproar.

The discourse had achieved its goal and now it came time to inflict even further damage. Getting his first taste of power, the political puppet began forging connections; one individual after another, both former allies and former enemies. Yes, who was who? Trailing after his parents, Draco played his role as well.

Wherever this was going, he did not like it. It seemed they were winning, but were they really? It was all the Dark Lord’s plan, yet the victors still remained unknown. What about his family? Were they better off now or not? If this unity were to come into existence, where could they go if it proved unbeneficial? Where would they run? A chill ran down Draco’s spine, offering a single moment more of peace before Potter invaded his sight.

Draco observed a good posture followed by rosy cheeks and miraculously tamed hair. He appeared almost regal, Draco had to admit, though the admission pierced him deeply.

“Your glaring may prove inconvenient, Malfoy,” Potter said as soon as he came close.

Should Draco risk throwing a curse at him? Better not. Instead he spat his next words as soon as the other boy stepped even closer to him in a brief and unforeseen moment of privacy. “If I had not already known the truth, I might have also believed you, _Potter_. So, all cards on table, what makes you so special enough to waste time on?”

He expected cockiness, even slander.

“You’ll have to ask the Dark Lord about that.”

Draco could do nothing but stare. This stupid boy, this traitor with fiercer words than ever dreamt before. This boy who used to smile. Draco had despised that smile every time he glimpsed sight of it across the Great Hall. Not that the smile had disappeared yet… it was just not quite the same. All had altered; the eyes, the smile, even the false legend. The person himself.

“I pity you,” Draco said in an absurd moment of honesty before turning his back on Harry Potter and walking away.

How could he have known he would end up missing something he truly hated?

 

 

*** * ***

 

 

Harry missed the cabin in the middle of nowhere as soon as he passed the threshold into his new home. Or, better said, _Voldemort_ _’s_ _home_. For it was Voldemort’s mansion that he now stood in. The place where Harry used to live hours before, no matter how cozy and welcoming, appeared like a shackle now compared to this. It was luxurious in its combination of black and white, all the sparse furnishings chosen with taste. Perhaps tasteful due to how minimal they were. Simply gazing around, Harry felt quite tense.

“I would have thought a taste of freedom would animate your eyes,” Voldemort called from behind him.

But it was not freedom, just a new cage. A fancy one, yet still a cage.

Harry faced the other man, watching him as he watched Harry. Lazy blinks accompanied the faint traces of tiredness on his face. Harry could still read the Dark Lord… or the Dark Lord was far too uncaring to hide his more-than-pleasant mood. Or, dare he even say, his _happiness_. Harry had finally danced to his tune, spitting out words in which he didn’t wholeheartedly believe in. The grand machinery of oppression had gained speed. The next step belonged to Ron and Hermione.

“It’s nice but —”

“Likho is waiting in your room.”

Of course he could guess Harry’s every wish. Granting them was a wholly different story though.

“Thank you,” uttered Harry in complete honesty, warmth invading his heart just as blood did when it soaked into pearly white snow. He did not wish to ache for the bribe that was Likho, least of all for the monster who selfishly gifted her. But he did. He wanted, and Harry desperately wanted to preserve himself against the wanting… To keep his thoughts clear, away from Voldemort’s perverted invasions. Did this man represent the rest of his life? Or _w_ _orse_ _,_ was Harry growing fond of the possibility? He must not. You can resemble a monster but not truly turn into one. It was a good plan, a plan that consisted of a definite line that must never be crossed. Not if he desired to remain himself, _Harry James Potter. Him. Harry. Just Harry._

But it appeared his consciousness bore different loyalties, simultaneously tugging him in opposite directions. Even as Harry harbored thoughts of rebellion, he did not immediately escape to his assigned bedroom even though he had the silent permission to do so. Instead he remained here with the Dark Lord who _also_ chose to stay as well. And it was _h_ _e_ who chose to inch toward Harry. 

And Perhaps Harry did as well.

Something more than gravity nudged them closer, but what? Could it be as simple as a shared soul?

“You made me proud today,” the other man said, gazing down at Harry and allowing a smirk to be witnessed. “Not a familiar feeling, I confess. You should be proud too.”

A laugh escaped Harry’s lips, one that he did not welcome at all. “Again, thank you. However… Are you really? I mean… your kind words are a gift, and every gift an opportunity. But for _you_ , not me.”

“Why not for both of us?”

Harry crossed his arms over his chest while the Dark Lord’s face darkened. He stalked closer and lowered until his grey eyes, like bright yet frightening stars, stared into Harry’s and crawled underneath his skin. Harry quickly found his breathing become laboured.

“Are you implying to have good intentions for me?” he breathlessly asked, holding Voldemort’s fiery gaze.

“No, Harry. I’m implying I have some self interest, a basic aspect of human nature. If one falls, the other follows. That’s how it will be with us.”

“Fair enough.”

Anticlimactically, he was released from Voldemort’s presence. Chills followed as the man faced away from him and Harry’s throat worked, as did his mind.

“Your room is on the second floor,” the Dark Lord announced as the distance between them continued to grow. “The door is open, it’s the only one. Feel free to hide from my presence until the need for your assistance arises again. Nothing has changed between us. Nothing at all.” The sudden loathing in Voldemort’s tone physically hurt. _It hurt_. But it should not.

“My mighty Dark Lord… you couldn’t be more mistaken.”

Voldemort’s strides ceased like an extinguished flame. The staircase was abandoned as, after a brief pause, the man made his way back to Harry with measured steps that may as well be torture for how slow they were. A torture that Harry had brought on himself with his own mouth. But it was the truth, nonetheless. Didn’t people say there was nothing more precious than the truth? Well, now was the time to test this theory.

Certainly there was no relief when Voldemort closed in on him, pinning Harry with all his attention. And how heavy his attention weighed. The two of them were mere steps away from each other and the Dark Lord’s eyes were so very intense and focused. They did not allow Harry a single moment to look away. And so a strange kind of waiting game took place which, for the first time, Harry ended up winning. Why? Because Voldemort was far too curious to keep his precious silence.

“You are a contradiction. An infuriating contradiction,” the older man hissed threateningly, viciously grasping at Harry’s chin in a strike just as swift as one Nagini might deal. “First you scorn me, then call after me. But for what purpose? What is your truth?”

Harry shrugged and parted his lips as his hands twitched at his sides. _Don_ _’_ _t react. Don_ _’_ _t touch him._ “I don’t know what to say… but one thing is for sure. I’m not the same person you captured in Bathilda Bagshot’s home. And neither are you.”

The grip on his chin grew more forceful yet the Dark Lord provided no other reaction except to continue staring into Harry’s eyes. Goosebumps raised on Harry’s heated skin as the following moments became tortuous and prolonged. Voldemort’s fingers finally released their hold to instead cup warm palms on either side of Harry’s face. The act itself was a form of provocation that did not go unanswered as Harry’s hands quickly reached up to cover the Dark Lord’s. _So much for not touching him_.

The following shudder may as well have belonged to either of them because there was no culprit to be found.

“You used to shy away from my touch,” Voldemort noted, tentatively tracing Harry’s cheeks with the pads of his fingers.

“There you have your answer,” Harry whispered, tilting his chin up. “I suddenly find myself allowing things I would never have welcomed before. Like growing fond of Likho. Like this. _Some_ things did change between us, and you must know it. I know you do.”

Voldemort hummed, his handsome face treacherously near Harry’s own. As if he wished to both eat and pet him. Perhaps choke him, but his fingers wandered too high for that. Though he was more than capable, oh that _he definitely was_.

“Then embrace these changes, my horcrux, for I’m never letting you go.”

The promise was far from a surprise yet it hit just as hard. Brushing his palms above the man’s, Harry waited, gulping down both his natural fear and his sick anticipation for something abominable. For this very man who stole his breath from his lungs with only a simple touch. With his mere presence. And yes, he _must_ have known it too because he searched for nothing in Harry’s eyes as he tilted Harry’s head to his liking. He simply did so to his heart’s desire.

Harry almost wanted him to keep his promise to never let him go. “You don’t truly care about me,” he managed to utter, their joined hands brushing the corner of his lips, bargaining for something he dared not speak.

“My mighty soul… you couldn’t be more mistaken,” Voldemort echoed his previous words with palpable viciousness. “But this is a start, and something I can work with.”

Harry was released so abruptly he nearly fell. He had thought —

“Go to sleep Harry, and do not tempt fate. Not this early.”

This time Harry allowed the man to go, and counted up to twenty before he moved for the staircase as well in order to not risk a second meeting.

_He had really thought…_

Harry had begun to venture far past all the lines now.

 

 

*** * ***

 

 

“Sneaking? How ludicrous. Naturally, I have permission. You could even say I have no _need_ for permission. What for? For what purpose? And from whom? I am of legal age and father is rather permissive and deservingly trusting of me — always has been, in fact. Mother as well. And to address the main concern, our Dark Lord would never frown upon such a visit. Especially due to… such particular circumstances.”

The last part may have been a little over the top but Borgin was not one to be fazed so easily. The ancient-looking man hunched over a large tome resting on the counter, arching bushy eyebrows at Draco and his rather unusual request. Or rather, his explanation for it.

_Life prolonging magic._

To search for anything on immortality would have sounded silly, and so he desperately needed the correction.

“Young Mister Malfoy,” Borgin drawled in a lazy tone, eyes not on him but somewhere behind him. “There is a difference between genuine interest and small talk. A not-so-subtle one.”

Draco was glad for the darkness inside the shop as redness creeped into his cheeks. _How dare this worm_ — ! No, Draco needed maintain his composure. Act like a Malfoy should; chin held high, uncaring of the opinions of those lesser than him. He exhaled quite briefly.

“Of course. May I see the books now?”

A vague gesture was Draco’s only invitation. Fine by him.

His visit was a hasty one this time, and a stupid decision after four days of inner turmoil. There was no rest to be found at home, not even before returning to the gloomy corridors of Hogwarts, especially in such particular circumstances. Draco reached the back of the shop and, with the owner finally out of reach, surveyed the few thick books waiting on the reading table. They were surprisingly lacking in dust. He sighed before sitting down, deciding on the closest within reach first.

 _An Exposition in Greatness,_ it read.

After half an hour, it proved there was nothing _too_ great about the text. Naturally, some life prolonging spells and practices were described, but nothing even close to the Dark Lord’s situation. Limbs growing back and organ preservation were brief and mundane to dare encapsulate all that power. Coming back from the dead required much more. But what?

Time for the next book.

In hindsight, Draco was behaving in a foolish manner. Sticking his nose into private affairs that might bring on _his_ wrath if he wasn’t careful. Yet ever since Potter’s blessed speech, the feeling of something being very wrong had taken place and cemented in Draco’s mind even deeper than before. They were heading down a dangerous path and the war was going badly. He just knew it. Whatever this was turning into, it frightened Draco. Worst of all, it frightened his parents as well. Draco could discern their tension, the fear in their eyes every time the Dark Lord was present. _They had disappointed him after all. And the Dark Lord never forgot._

In slow steps life had altered its course and a curse began to to chase after his family. It petrified Draco how, at any moment, the man could decide to serve punishment and kill his father or mother right before his eyes. Coldly, just to prove a point. And Potter would watch too, _damn him!_ Was he truly a victim? Were his hands truly tied? The pleased look in the Dark Lord’s eyes while staring at the boy said otherwise. _Unsettling_. They both were. Together, even more so.

 _Damn them both_. Why couldn’t they just kill each other and leave them all alone?

No answer came to clear Draco’s mind, not in response to the his inner questions nor the purpose of his visit. Not that he had a precise one. He was just here to… test the waters, to feel like he was going somewhere, doing something.

In the end, that _something_ did eventually seem to catch up to him. Or rather, _they_ did. The two familiarly annoying voices were communicating in hushed whispers. It was none other than the blood traitor and his precious mudblood. Here, at Borgin and Burkes, only bookshelves standing between the pair and Draco. Was this was it? A crossroads? What to do? Should he call for the Dark Lord or strike the pair down himself? Or perhaps… let them go? Try something else?

One thing was for sure. The books before his eyes would not offer any solutions. So Draco stood and, heart in his throat, followed the hushed whispers.

The girl locked gazes with him as soon as he took the corner with no wand in hand, trying to strike for a non-threatening posture. Her eyes went comically round, hands latching onto Weasley who spun on his heels, facing him. Draco spoke, recognizing this might be his sole chance. Perhaps his death sentence if fate was against him.

“Do you two halfwits happen to know how to end all this and get Potter back in the process?”

For whatever reason, the mudblood stopped Weasley from cursing him into oblivion. Well, not for whatever reason. Harry Potter was the sole reason. Draco had counted on that. One bigger fool than the other. Yet fools could achieve plenty.

Draco motioned for them to follow.

 

*** * ***

 

Likho purred in Harry’s lap, warm and content and perhaps a tad sleepy.

She was a strange mirror image of himself; curled up on his new bed, wishfully peering out the foggy windows with his cold hands buried in the cat’s warm fur. It was snowing outside again and he was bored, irritated, and anxious when steps neared his closed door. _Voldemort._ The man who was only heard coming because he wished to be heard. A deep breath did little to ease the anxious feelings inside Harry. The steps grew louder until, not before long, there was a knock.

“Come in,” Harry sighed, bracing himself.

And so the Dark Lord did, coming to hover beside Harry’s bed like a bad omen. He was devastatingly handsome in the morning light, all black curls and intense eyes hiding countless questions. Harry was instantly reminded of yesterday evening’s disaster and his own idiotic presumptions. _If only the man knew…_

Likho mewled as if in rejoice, whether it was for the visit or Harry’s embarrassment was unknown.

“You did not join me for breakfast,” came the inevitable accusation.

“Not hungry, I guess.”

Voldemort appeared far from convinced. Or caring. “Are you avoiding me?” There was a slightly cocky undertone to his voice as he came closer to the bed in a leisurely and measured pace. As if Harry were an animal one should not frighten and he the imposing master who looked for a lasting bond.

But he did terrify. The Dark Lord always did. Even more so when he rested alongside Harry's outstretched legs on the bed. As if it were the most natural thing in the entire world having his right hand nearly brushing Harry’s calves with obvious intention.

Harry, instantly on guard, leaned back against the headboard and kept his eyes on the hand dwarfing his thin legs. “No… but you’re the one who sent me to my room last night.”

“Where else would you have me send you?”

 _Don_ _’t_ _you_ _dare blush,_ _you stupid boy! Don_ _’_ _t you dare!_ The Dark Lord — _Tom Riddle_ — was devilishly handsome, of course he was. But nothing more. His features were enchanting but… was that the sole reason behind Harry’s reaction? Was Harry fascinated by his perfect appearance only? Staring into those eyes, the answer was painfully obvious. Of course not. There was far more to this man than his immaculate looks. The way he held himself, his clever words, the power he radiated with each breath… Even the nasty insults and ruthless cruelty hid a peculiar charm, alluring in its scariness. Fascinating enough to trap Harry in his web.

Likho stood and stretched before nuzzling against Voldemort’s knee, utterly oblivious to the tension in the room. Meanwhile Harry swallowed around thin air and forced a shrug.

“I — don’t know. Nowhere too dangerous, I imagine. Seeing as I host your soul and all that…”

“Yes, I do treat my soul well. I certainly do,” the other man echoed.

The cat’s presence continued to be ignored, but by both of them this time. It was only that it was so haunting to be so close and where Voldemort smiled, danger was sure to lurk. His presence was all-consuming.

“Harry, I have some good news to share. Your precious friends have established contact and a meeting has been arranged at last. Surely you are keen for such an unexpected development. Seeing familiar faces… and all that.”

“You say that as if you aren’t familiar.”

A strange tightness soaked into the Dark Lord’s expression and, for the first time, a peculiar story played on his handsome features. As if Harry’s sudden outburst of truth had thrown him off balance.

Then Harry realised he was supposed to form a response in the first place. _Good news_ , the man had said. “I mean — Yes. I do want to go and meet them.” But it was already too late. Voldemort appeared far more interested in his previous words than anything else, the purpose of which was unclear.

“And you will,” the man nodded moments later, dropping the previous subject in an uncharacteristic show of mercy. “Meet them and retrieve our soul. Buy their lives, just as we discussed.”

Just like that, they returned to familiar territory. Harry knew how to play this game, the rules the same as they had been in the beginning. Nothing changed. “And what if… what if they refuse to hand over the horcrux? What do I do then?” he asked, voice strained.

“You will be convincing,” Voldemort stated calmly, now nearly brushing Harry’s right ankle.

“But what if they still won’t trust me?” _As they rightfully shouldn’t_.

“You will be convincing.”

With that, the case closed and the weapons were handed over. Only results were expected now and letting the Dark Lord down was not an option. Harry _had_ to get the horcrux back. For Ron and Hermione’s safety and his own. Using whatever means necessary.

It was a terrifying thought.

Voldemort finally stood, gifting him space to breathe. He only stopped when he came to the door of Harry’s room. “And Harry?” he called back. “Wipe that gloomy expression off your face. You are scaring Likho away from your bed.”

“I didn’t know you cared so much about her.”

“No, Harry. I care about my peace and quiet. She’s in my home, she’s part of it. Just as you are. No go get your shoes, your fugitive friends must be waiting and you wouldn’t want to scare them either.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Millions and millions of interminable thanks to the most wonderful beta that exists in this entire world (~˘▾˘)~ Vanillaghost. Thank you for your patience and most of all, for your time 💕💕💕

 

The anticipation was electrifying. Gut-wrenching. Drowning. And Hermione only became conscious of her fingers tapping against her thigh when Ron’s fingers closed around hers.

“He’s here,” the red-head whispered, and so they stood with both dread and excitement in their stomachs.

People passed them in the crowded park Hermione had suggested as a meeting place. Enough muggle witnesses so You-Know-Who wouldn’t try anything. Malfoy had been skilful enough to set the terms in their favour, even down to the hour of their choosing. In truth, Hermione’s hopes had been low to begin with, yet now… _he_ was before them once again.

It had stopped snowing outside and children had started to gather to build snowmen and play. Alongside them were their parents and, waltzing through it all, was Harry. A Harry who now had a different walk, who no longer wore glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and whose hands were inside the pockets of a long black coat.

Since when did their Harry wear such clothing?

Harry finally arrived before them and gifted them a smile instead of a warm, long-awaited hug. “Hello. I’m glad you’re both okay.”

 _I don_ _’_ _t have the same faith in Potter that you do_ , Hermione recalled Draco saying prior to this reunion.

“Merlin… What did he do to you?” Ron let out, voicing both their thoughts.

Harry wetted his lips. “Not much, really.”

_Everything then._

“I — let’s sit down. Let’s sit, let’s talk,” Hermione said.

Harry nodded his acceptance yet ended up being the one to lead the way to a more secluded area with a wooden table separated by two benches. While he occupied one side, Hermione and Ron settled on the other. It quickly became clear that this Harry Potter was not the wounded boy she had last seen crawling around in Bathilda Bagshot’s home. As was proved by just his outer appearance alone. Other than his lack of glasses, he was poised, his posture straight, and the shine in his green eyes cold. As if their possessor was guarded, as if they were not longtime best friends.

“He’s watching us, isn’t he?” Hermione asked, stealing a glance around.

Harry appeared genuinely confused by the question. _“_ No… he’s simply waiting for me at the park’s entrance. He even brought a book with him. You wouldn't believe it but he’s quite the avid reader.”

Hermione’s heart broke. It was true, then. The manner in which Harry talked about _him_ …. Draco had not lied. Yet maybe… just maybe it proved nothing more than a clever act to deceive a brilliant monster.

“Mate, we were so worried,” Ron babbled, leaning over the table slightly, elbows disturbing the thick layer of snow. “That you might have been killed, tortured — all kinds of things! And then… then you showed up in public and we were…”

“Unsettled,” Hermione finished, seeing no point in dragging the conversation in circles. “Tell us, Harry. Did you really mean what you said back then in your speech? At the Ministry?”

Harry blinked, inching back in his obviously uncomfortable seat. “That isn’t the purpose of this conversation.”

“I… What?”

“Well… I have a request. That’s why we met.”

Ron made to speak but Hermione interrupted. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Hermione, let him talk for a moment,” Ron exhaled in an annoyed tone.

“Let him answer my question first.”

A sigh escaped Harry who had been staring blankly in the distance as if his thoughts were far away from here. What was happening? Where was the happiness of reunion? The joy of seeing each other in one piece after everything they had endured these past months? Where was the bright light of Harry’s personality? The enthusiasm? The drive? Now he just seemed bored.

Though she harboured many questions, Hermione was left speechless; unease coiling in her belly. It was exactly as Draco had said it would be.

“Look,” Harry began all of a sudden. “There’s no good or proper way for me to get this out but… Voldemort has won. The wizarding world is under his thumb. His control over it is just as unimaginably intricate as he is powerful. I know this better than anyone — no, let me finish. There’s no fighting him, not even if you were to miraculously destroy all his horcruxes. It’s not that simple. Conventional opposition will only end up in more bloodshed for both parties involved, so… in order to avoid this we both made a deal, kind of. Yes, Voldemort wishes to have the world work his way, but without leading it himself and dealing with the paperwork and so on. And I want to live and not die as a martyr. Is this answer enough for your question?”

Everyone remained quiet for a prolonged amount of time. One waiting, two struggling to make sense of this new reality. In the end it proved too much to take in one go. The words that poured out of Harry’s mouth resembled poison, blasphemy. He was suggesting — no, _more than suggesting._ He was _declaring_ — he had yielded in front of his parents’ murderer. In front of this ruthless dictator who only sought to oppress, torture, and kill. And their Harry had said ‘ _yes_ _’_ to him. Had agreed to someone who desired to enslave Hermione and those who shared her blood status.

“You are a traitor if you really believe your words. But at least answer one more question: Please tell me you’re not on his side. Please,” she insisted with unmasked desperation. “Tell me you have a reason.”

Harry’s gaze dropped, presumably to his shoes or the muddy snow. Anywhere but at them.

“Perhaps I am — a traitor. For some. For others, maybe not. However, I will willingly accept the label if it means saving innocent lives in the process. Peace is worth the cost. Now to the purpose of this meeting — ” Here he took a deep breath. “He has a proposal for the two of you, a simple one. And that is his horcrux for your safety. Listen, I promise you’ll be allowed to walk away freely after the diadem is in my hands. I swear it.”

“Harry, mate…” trailed Ron before he was cut off mid-sentence yet again. This time by Harry.

“Think about it. Be rational. He’ll get it back sooner or later, and he’ll kill you in the bloody process. Why not cede it willingly and go on with your lives? Just consider how nice it would be. Both of you will live and get to be with your families —”

“My family will be persecuted no matter what you say!” snarled Ron, catching the attention of a few nearby children. “They already are. _Blood traitors_ are what we’re called. Do you honestly believe this is ever going to change while he leads us?”

“So the answer is no?”

Hermione had no words.

“Of course it’s a _no_ ,” Ron went on in her place. “I have no idea what he’s done to you but, Harry, he’s a monster! He’s You-Know-Who! How can you trust anything he says?”

Harry pursed his lips. “Do you want me to beg?”

“What?”

“Because I’ll do it. I’ll get on my knees in exchange for the horcrux.”

“Stop,” Hermione said, raising her voice and discreetly casting the privacy ward she should have cast long ago. “Just stop, both of you.”

“Neither of you understand,” sighed Harry, looking drained. “In choosing this, your death is not a matter of _if_ , it’s a matter of _when_. And I don’t want to watch it happen! I want to help but you have to help me too! He expects me to return with the horcrux. I can’t show up with my hands empty. You know I can’t.”

“You’re trying to manipulate us,” Hermione concluded.

“I’m trying to save your lives and make mine a little easier in the process!” Harry snarled, leaning over the table. “And you’re doing everything in your power to ruin my attempts! Guys… let’s… let’s be real. This is how things are. They’re not going to change for the better, certainly not overnight. Voldemort is not going to vanish, the world isn’t going to be the same. Accept it. So please hand me the horcrux and be on your way. Leave the country, take your families with you. You won’t be followed. All this can be yours as long as you give me the horcrux.”

Hermione’s answer remained the same but Ron hesitated, and rightfully so. The offer was a tempting one. Here was a chance to start anew and leave behind this nightmare. Leave behind the murders, the oppression, the sneaking into all the darkest corners they could find. The escape sounded and tasted tempting.

“No,” protested Ron at last, trampling over the enticement. “We can’t do this. We just can’t.”

Harry’s expression grew dim as he stood. “Fine, have it your way. Now, you have to choose and you have to choose now. Either hand me the cup at this very moment or the second you Apparate to safety, all members of the Weasley family will be dead. Death Eaters are in key positions as we speak. So hurry up and make a choice.”

Ron’s breath was cut short, arm darting for his wand — an arm that was caught by Hermione. It was already done. Harry had pressed exactly where he needed to press, and had meant every word. His eyes told no lies.

Standing as well, Hermione tugged Ron alongside her but not before digging into the vast compartments of her bag. “We’re going to Apparate to the Burrow and they are going to be alright. Then we’re all going to leave.” Hermione’s fingers closed around the cup’s handle before she handed the horcrux over to Harry who held it in his hands with stomach-turning care. As if he were comforting a fragile bird. “I hope peace will be worth all the blood on your hands.”

He did not answer, and the last thing Hermione saw was his green eyes staring. Not at them, but at the glowing gold of the cursed cup. Neither the sound of children’s laughter nor Hermione and Ron’s departure reached him. Harry was in his own world.

Yet Hermione still bore hope.

 

*** * ***

 

The horcrux was a pretty thing. They all were… even himself, Harry supposed.

The soles of his shoes stomped on half mud, half snow, as he neared the park’s entrance. All the while he dodged carefree children from time to time.

There he was, waiting on a bench apart from all the rest. The man was not only watched by Harry. He was quite a sight, after all. Middle-aged moms accompanied by children, young girls fooling around in the snow… they all drank in the Dark Lord’s presence and did not even know it.

Harry marched forward, holding the cup like a prize close to his chest. Voldemort offered no signs of acknowledgment. Either so as not to raise the already high tension or unwilling to inspect the surely disappointing results.

“Here,” uttered Harry, and tapped the man’s left shoulder.

The Dark Lord placed his book beside him and met Harry’s gaze before his own fell to the object clutched in Harry’s hands. An outstretched arm followed a brief widening of eyes, so brief Harry could only have hoped to detect it. They had spent so much time in each other’s company, after all. Familiarity was bound to happen even in the most tragic of cases if the participants danced too often in the same circle.

It became clear by Voldemort’s silence that he had not expected Harry to succeed, at least not on his first try. Expectations had been set tremendously low and so the surprise… was now tremendously big. Yet this surprise manifested itself in a peculiar way.

The man’s other arm caught Harry’s own, tugging him straight into the Dark Lord’s lap. In a hurried attempt to maintain his balance, Harry’s fingers dug into Voldemort’s shoulders yet the action proved unnecessary. Hands flew underneath his thighs at once, keeping him in place and taking care of everything that could go wrong.

Their faces were inches apart.

“Try and feel one another,” said the Dark Lord, and the horcrux was deposited in Harry’s lap almost carelessly. “Then try feel me.”

A shudder rippled through Harry’s body as he allowed himself a moment of tense reflection. _Do not dare misinterpret things again!_ Yet he sat in Lord Voldemort’s lap in plain sight, way past what was considered an acceptable boundary in a _tentative associates_ kind of relationship. This was too much, even for their peculiar bond. Was it wise to test the waters any further when somehow this man embodied both the water and the predator beneath it?

Then again, was Harry still the helpless prey?

He stared the Dark Lord in his grey eyes. Want proved easy to read but a want for _what,_ exactly, continued to remain a mystery.

Although…

The fingers that grazed the upper part of Harry’s legs were possessive enough for his mind to jump to a lucky, or perhaps unfortunate, guess. Voldemort lacked in subtlety this one time, what with the position and the way he gazed at Harry… It also only occurred to Harry at that moment that the man had asked a question.

 _Feel me,_ he had ordered. Meaning his soul, presumably. But the body pressed to Harry’s was impossible to ignore as was the horcrux in his lap. However, the Dark Lord demanded Harry’s entire focus. And he _did_ feel him, in all the ways one could possibly feel another person, and them some. The physical sensation buzzed with tension while the mental aspect had a strange warmth washing over his consciousness… That must have been the cup, the horcrux, the amplifier.

“I… I do, feel you. _It_.”

The ghost of a smile graced Voldemort’s lips and his grip on Harry’s thighs grew more secure. “Good boy. You make me doubt the concept of you ever failing. Or was it just luck this time?”

What were they talking about in the first place? And the people… they must all be staring at them in outrage for assuming such an indecent position in front of their children! Harry would have investigated but looking away from the man in whose lap he now rested was not a choice at the moment. No a compelling one, anyway.

“Is it fun to mess with me like this?” Harry asked, the cup feeling like the weight of a world in his lap. “Because I think you must know, seeing as you already know so much… With you being you, of course…”

“I know myself.”

Was that a yes or a no? Or was it a sign to stop before it was too late to pretend and risk it all hoping for the best? Harry’s throat was already dry. “Laugh and mock me all you want but do you ever think of me as—”

“I know what you mean,” the man interrupted, head tilted and strands of inky hair obscuring his vision. “And I said that I know myself. The question is, do you?”

An immense weight lifted from Harry’s chest only for a new kind of coldness to curl in his belly. Dismay. Dancing around the subject had turned dangerous. Dangerous for Harry, because what Voldemort had said could be interpreted in any number of ways, all of them equally threatening.

“You’ve been forcing many things onto me lately, but not this,” Harry said with more bravery than he currently possessed. “And I don’t think it’d be quite so easy to get away from. I doubt I would have even cared for you if any of this had been subjected to my conscious will.”

And just like that, without any warning, the Dark Lord’s mouth found Harry’s neck and Harry’s body twitched from head to toe in an utterly involuntarily movement. If Harry had been expecting a romantic confession or a cold dismissal, there was none. Only his crazy heartbeat as the man manoeuvred him up by his chin and, without a single word, placed their lips together.

Like everything else, they fit and worked well together. Demanded more and more and more from each other. To be held close, to be crushed against that broad chest, but mostly to be kissed like this. To have the slide of their lips become forceful and Voldemort’s tongue to prod for Harry to open his mouth — which he did, without hesitation. And if the groan reverberating in his own chest was anything to go by, the Dark Lord seemed quite pleased by Harry’s rather tentative actions as well.

Their skill on the matter of kissing was unmatched yet Harry made up for it in enthusiasm. But more importantly, Lord Voldemort had always been a good teacher. A strict one, but a good one. Hands cradled Harry’s face, coaxing his lips to mold themselves against his own like a rehearsal for the main show. Harry arched in his lap as his fingers twisted in the man’s hair. His legs shook with the need to spread them and straddle the Dark Lord’s lap.

All the while, they were still in a public park during winter with people of all ages staring at them. Watching Harry make out with the equivalent of a muggle mass murderer.

And Harry enjoyed every single minute of it.

So on it went, and for _how_ long, he cared not. It was warm, pleasant, all consuming. _Provocative_. In a poetic way, Voldemort was eating him alive. Harry reciprocated until a hand grabbed his throat to separate their mouths with a sigh. Silence fell heavily as soon as their eyes met. What now?

The air grew chilly against his heated cheeks but Harry was far from cold. His own hands trembled against the man’s shoulders yet he did not retreat an inch. The bad deed had already been done so now would come his sentence.

“Am I supposed to say something meaningful now?” the Dark Lord asked.

_Oh._

“What would you say if you had to?” Harry replied. It was tremendously difficult not gaze at Voldemort’s mouth like a lunatic.

“What would you want me to say?”

Chills soaked into Harry’s skin as he stood from the man’s lap, careful not to drop the horcrux before he unceremoniously handed it over to the Dark Lord. He didn’t know what he had expected, but it was certainly not this. The only question that remained was… why in hell had Harry allowed himself to be so vulnerable? Why had he trusted the monster not to take a bite? “Doesn’t matter,” he said, voice strained. “The cup is in your hands, all is good and well. Can we leave now?”

All of a sudden the sounds of the outside world caught up with him. The children’s laughter — some crying — and the muffled conversations in the background. Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other, conscious of the burning of his lips. _He must not touch them_ _._

“You are angry.”

“No. Can we please leave?”

Voldemort observed him in silence and stood as well, the horcrux safely hidden inside his coat. He walked in the direction of the exit, gazing behind him only once to make sure Harry followed. And Harry did, not meeting his eyes as he trailed after the Dark Lord. People were surely passing rightful judgment on them for their behavior. Harry felt depraved and aching cold.

_If only the kiss hadn_ _’_ _t happened._

But no matter how hard Harry tried to rationalize what happened, he discovered no believable explanation for Voldemort’s behavior, for the kiss, for the touches. The man had willingly participated in the intimate act, and with quite a bit of ardour. Was the Dark Lord cruel enough to fake this interest? Was he bored enough to attempt such an approach? Harry remained unconvinced in face of this supposed pettiness for no coherent purpose.

Then there was the ‘ _I know myself’_ bit… This game they were playing proved intricate and tempting. The results unknown and only to be seen and felt on Harry’s own skin.

His lips still burned when they arrived in Voldemort’s unnaturally vast hallway, and Harry let go of the man’s hand at once. Or better said; he was allowed to snatch his hand from the possessive grip. Silence spread and spread while Harry awkwardly cleared his throat, thinking of a million excuses just to go up and hide in his room. But in the end, it was the other man who spoke first.

“How did you convince your companions to hand over the horcrux so easily?”

Right, back to the important business.

“You mean to say you did not listen?”

The blinking of the Dark Lord’s eyes made him pause. “Tell me,” he said.

“I bargained and pleaded. None of it worked. Then I threatened. I told Ron that Death Eaters were at his house ready to strike down his entire family. That seemed to work,” Harry concluded with bitterness, recalling the horrified expressions on Ron and Hermione’s faces.

“A little lie can do wonders sometimes.”

 _You would know._ The words stood on the tip of Harry’s tongue. The same tongue that had — _No_ _,_ _d_ _on’_ _t go there._ “May I go and sleep? I’m tired.”

“It’s noon.”

“I’m tired.”

Harry was closely studied and there was not a trace of doubt that the older man knew his thoughts, his shame, his need to run away from the very object of his shame. Questions persisted… so would Lord Voldemort allow the retreat?

“Our other issue will have to be addressed soon enough. You can’t hide in your room forever.”

“Until tomorrow?”

There was a tense moment of eye contact before the Dark Lord nodded. “Until tomorrow. I do have my own matters to attend to. Sleep well.”

“I will. Likho is with me.”

Without bidding farewell, Harry turned on his heel and marched all the way up to his assigned chamber. Or rather, _his room_ now. The place where a familiar inky spot of fur waited, twisted on top of the mattress. When Harry managed to close the door behind him, Likho’s tiny head was up and sniffing the air.

“Missed you too, you little beast.”

She nudged Harry’s fingers so he supposed the feeling was mutual this time at least.

Harry changed into his pajamas and hudled underneath the covers while Likho rested on the opposite pillow. But sleep evaded him. The tiredness he’d recently claimed to feel had been a blatant lie. And now there was nothing to do but try and make this lie into truth and ignore the obvious. He hadn’t the energy for anything else.

“I can’t understand our kidnapper,” Harry confessed to a purring Likho. “He’s… confusing. And makes me equally confused. I’m ashamed of myself thanks to your handsome thief.”

Naturally, no response met his hushed whispers. And at some indefinite point, Harry must have fallen asleep. For when his eyes flew open again, the sky was nearly pitch black outside and Likho was missing from his bed. She was likely in Voldemort’s company, if the man had returned. She proved well versed in creeping into the Dark Lord’s chambers, yet Harry suspected Likho was not as unwelcome as he had initially thought. At the very least, Voldemort tolerated her presence.

The bed bounced as Harry abandoned it, bones announcing their protest. He did not bother with any garments other than his white night clothing before he walked through deserted corridors on his way downstairs. If the man had returned, Harry thought, there ought to be subtle traces he’d left behind. A used coffee cup was the usual proof of this, as the Dark Lord had a strange habit of placing washed dinnerware apart from the rest even when they were both equally dry.

All was quiet.

Until Likho mewled and Harry sighed as he left the kitchen to pad across the living room toward the entrance area. His feet were bare as he had left his shoes upstairs, the temperature in the house always warm enough so there was no need to —

There were people in Lord Voldemort’s home.

The strangers came into sight as soon as Harry took the corner. But when he tried to take a step back, it was already too late. His presence had been spotted and they had their wands out and ready. If they were Death Eaters, Voldemort must be close by and they must know the rules. But if they weren’t…

“Mister Potter,” a blond man who looked to be the leader addressed him. “You should hurry and come with us.”

Harry’s blood ran cold. They were not Death Eaters. They were dangerous strangers whom he had no weapons to fight against. But here they were, in the Dark Lord’s home, violating the familiar territory Harry nearly called home.

“Who are you?” Harry asked, hoping to buy time. “And why should I?”

The intruders just stood there, some gazing at him and some gazed at their surroundings, _at_ _Lord Voldemort_ _’_ _s home_.

“Order of the Phoenix,” someone other than the leader answered. “Now hurry up and come with us.”

Harry took a step back, eyes on their wands. “How?”

Their presence should not be possible. How did they know where to find him? Using what means? And were these unknown men the help Harry had initially sought for back in the winter cabin? For some reason this help felt more like danger than what was meant to be the actual danger. It left Harry’s insides tangled and throbbing. He was afraid. He took another step back and the strangers felt the wrong turn just as swiftly as Harry did.

Wands were pointed at his face in mere seconds.

“You can thank your friends for this, and it wasn’t a request when I told you to come with us,” the one that spoke last time threatened, leaving the rest behind as he advanced on Harry. “So move your ass before the crazy fucker comes back. I won’t have my friends killed because you want him to have another go at your filthy mouth or whatever it is you two do. I won’t say it twice, boy.”

Hermione and Ron had somehow put a trace on him. On the horcrux. _Shit shit shit!_ Losing was a guarantee right now and there was no running away. _Order of the Phoenix, Ron and Hermione_ _…_ What would they do to the one who had publicly declared his support for Lord Voldemort’s rule? Harry was surely a traitor in their eyes, one in dire need of correction. The thrill of freedom was gone and he could taste menace in the air.

“Fucking hell. You two sickos even got yourselves a cat—”

“I don’t want to come with you.”

“What did you just say?”

“I don’t want to come with you,” Harry repeated. “So leave before Voldemort comes back, if you want to survive the day. Consider this some friendly advice.”

It was the Dark Lord’s name that seemed to trigger the violent reaction. Fear twisted with anger as the Order member lunged at him. He slammed into Harry, knocking him off his feet to where the back of his head thudded against the floors. The breath knocked out of Harry’s lungs while the blond man straddled his hips above him.

“Damn traitor,” the man hissed straight into Harry’s face. “What’s the matter now? Don’t enjoy being pinned down like this? Who would have thought?”

“Doge, get off him and let’s go,” someone’s panicked voice called out. But Doge was far too busy palming between Harry’s legs while Harry thrashed with all his might, trying to escape those unwanted hands.

“Don’t touch me! No! Don’t you fucking touch me, I said!”

“And why not? I think we should have a share of You-Know-Who’s whore—”

While the man may have Harry’s hands pinned, his upper body was still functional. So without caring of broken teeth, Harry abruptly lurched upward, mouth open wide, and bit deeply into his molester’s cheek. Wails erupted as warm liquid flooded the insides of Harry’s mouth. He spat out his mouthful before falling onto his back, now free of any weight above him. Breathing heavily, shaking from head to toe, and with palms covering his lips, Harry struggled not to throw up. Tears obscured his vision as the thought hit him: _The man had been going to rape him._

Harry heard Likho cry from somewhere close by as the noise grew in intensity and he sobbed even louder. Harry couldn’t stop. Hands had wandered all over his private parts, making his skin crawl in revulsion. _He had been going to rape Harry_. And the flesh… the damn flesh he had spit all over the floors... Harry had bit the man and now the man was going to punish him.

" _Harry_.”

Silence fell when the voice spoke.

Voldemort’s voice.

It could only be his voice from the note and intimate way in which he pronounced every letter of Harry’s name. _He was here_ and Harry could only cry louder as he was engulfed in the Dark Lord’s arms and hugged closely to his chest. They rocked back and forth while Harry’s uncontrollable bawling drowned out even Likho’s noise. He was safe now, Harry knew, yet he found himself wishing to sink into Voldemort’s arms and never leave them. To be guarded against all danger and sheltered within them.

“It’s all right,” the Dark Lord spoke, cradling Harry’s face away from his shoulder to press their foreheads together. “I got you, I got us. You’re with me.”

Harry nodded, not looking away from his grey eyes.

“You will be fine, trust in me. Breathe. Yes, just like that, my boy. You’re with me, Harry.”

And he was. With Voldemort, safe, and whatever laid behind their kneeling forms only dust in the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on tumblr @lordmarvoloriddle


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Millions and millions of interminable thanks to the most wonderful beta that exists in this entire world (~˘▾˘)~ Vanillaghost. Thank you for your patience and most of all, for your time 💕💕💕

 

 

It was strange what people were able to evolve into. It took a lot and yet… very little.

In Harry’s case, however, he still found no decisive answer to his wonderings. In truth, he would be lying to say he invested meaningful time in debating such philosophical questions regarding himself and who he was or may be. Harry just _was_. The final product made the difference. The rest was insignificant.

The weather had turned terrible these past few days too. There was snow, but the kind similar to rain. It was wet and cold but, unlike past nightmarish times spent in a winter wilderness, he couldn’t care less. Harry possessed a wand now. A phoenix wand identical to the wand broken in Bathilda Bagshot’s home. Identical right down to the fiery sparks it sent through Harry’s fingertips while in his grasp. If he had not known of his previous wand’s destruction, he would have thought they were one and the same. It offered some mundane amount of comfort.

Harry recalled Voldemort’s words when he had demanded an explanation for the gift. Apparently, a remarkable wandmaker was in the the Dark Lord’s custody. One who had crafted this special favor for him with feathers from who-knew-where. Once upon a time Harry may have resisted such a forcefully made gift, yet now… there was no way to refuse it. Not even a rudimentary wand, if that had been the case. But this… this was masterfully shaped, felt just right in his hand, and — perhaps most importantly — the Dark Lord trusted him enough to allow a weapon in his hands again.

Or, just maybe, it was another test.

Intuition told Harry that they were far past silly trials, yet reality told another story. Either way, in face of such a precious offering, he thanked Voldemort both verbally and practically by cooking them a fine meal while the man chose the wine. They both still ended up working on the pasta though; one on the sauce while the other cooked the meat as water boiled.

That had been a pleasant evening. Even Likho had gotten a special treat: Raw fish with no tiny frail bones in sight.

“Do you want to go in?” Voldemort said as his attention returned to Harry. Not that it ever drifted away for long.

“No, simply observing the cheap spectacle. I always found the concept of religion distasteful.”

They were out in muggle London. _For a prolonged walk_ , Harry had been informed. But he remained convinced something else lurked beneath the suspiciously generous offer. Something that, when said suspicions were voiced aloud, the Dark Lord did not bother to deny. _You’ll see_ , he had said _._ And yes, Harry certainly would.

Harry also knew that the other reason why he was out with a wand in his possession was because of… _the incident_.

The first days after the home invasion had not gone well for him. He had lost his appetite and his will to leave bed. So each time Voldemort arrived with a tray of food in Harry’s room back at the small sheltered cabin in the middle of nowhere and stood on the edge of the bed until at least half the plate was finished. He never threatened, but his eyes said enough. They were demanding and promising, and Harry found he did not wish to refuse them.

But something else had taken place, too. There was more human contact. Either together with him, or in general. The touching part possessed the status of theory as of now, given the lack of other persons around. Yet Harry remained convinced he would not be able to tolerate any other touch besides Voldemort's. At least that was safe. Careful, nearly gentle, though Harry knew there was nothing gentle about this man. It was all a game, playing it safe, dancing around a sickly experience. Like a prey animal, the Dark Lord waited for an opening. But where would it lead?

Now, as the pair waited at a vaguely deserted crosswalk with Voldemort’s body positioned between Harry and the rest of the people, Harry considered the church as well. It was a Sunday morning, a little past eleven and the loud hymns from inside echoed out across the road. Voldemort’s handsome face reflected deep abhorrence as they passed.

“Are you an atheist?” Harry asked as they neared a rather fancy apartment building.

“Aren’t you?”

Harry shrugged. “Never really spared much thought for it. Life’s always been rather distracting.”

“Indeed. There’s no point in wasting our time on this subject. It is only another tyranny to abolish — though one quite formidably built, I admit. It is resistant, like a cockroach.”

Harry should have guessed the man’s opinion regarding holy things. How he had probably challenged holiness itself at one point or more and refused to deem it worthy.

Not before long they found themselves at the steps leading up to a building entrance where Voldemort stopped. He drifted near Harry, towering over him, inundating Harry’s nostrils with the pleasant, clear scent of himself. “Ask your questions,” he prompted.

“Fine.” Harry wasted no time. “What are we here for?”

“For a great number of things. But mainly to drop you off while I ready a present. You, too, shall be readying a gift for me.” The smile on Voldemort’s face was a cruel one. “Try to do so, at least. On the second floor, apartment number twenty-three. You will find none other than Professor Horace Slughorn. He foolishly thinks himself safe from my eyes. Go to him, reestablish an inkling of trust, and sway him to our side so he can be our little singing bird. For I wish another man who is in the Order’s affairs. Shouldn’t be too complicated, I believe.”

“What about Snape?”

“Harry… the more birds, the better.” The Dark Lord’s fingers caught Harry’s forearm, reading his distress from his face down to his body posture. Seeing _everything_. “Now go. Meet me here in an hour and a half and bring Slughorn along. Understood?”

Denial stood on the tip of Harry’s tongue. “But I don’t want to go in there alone. It’s not safe with the Light side for me. What if… what if something happens again? What if they come for me?” _Even though I have a wand now_. Truly, it made no sense to doubt Voldemort's plan yet fear sunk its teeth deep into Harry as his own nails dug into the fine material of Voldemort's coat.  “Just… don’t leave.” Then more quietly, painfully: “Please.”

“Harry, I will never leave you. I promise. Don’t you trust my words?”

They exchanged a conversation with their gazes alone. A challenge.

Was this playing dirty or simply pure trust? Those grey eyes were clear yet said little of the man’s intentions. The touch was blind too and, in the end, a gamble. You win or you lose. Yet the Dark Lord’s persona had always been about winning, perhaps not immediately and perhaps not every time. But he always trampled over his enemies in the end. So Harry trusted his power, in spite of anything else. Perhaps with the help of a little bit of blind trust as well, though it wasn’t quite justifiable. Not even to himself.

“I do,” Harry confessed, and let go of the man’s hand while a lump formed in his throat. But he did not lie. “Take care, I guess, with whatever you must do.”

Voldemort’s expression turned from calculated to amused. “Are you frightened for me?”

Harry was, wasn’t he? “They already got too close once.”

It was a stab at the Dark Lord’s pride, surely. But Harry said it nevertheless.

“But never again,” Voldemort vowed. “Concentrate on the task at hand, not on my safety. You look forward to your gift, my horcrux. I’ll be looking forward to mine as well.”

With a nearly respectful tilt of his dark head, the man Disapparated without a sound or a change in the air. Leaving Harry to accomplish his part of the deal with an unusual lack of surveillance. But this, too, was an act of trust. There was no question of running away now. What for? To whom?

Harry took several deep breaths before he entered the potential trap and set off for the second floor, trying not to dwell on whether he was really going to get caught or not. Because if he were, Harry would have to come up with a solid plan in the little time before the professor came to the door, firm steps signalling his arrival. No magic was involved in the process; Slughorn was that sure of himself. But they were both equally unprepared for the encounter.

The man’s face fell as soon as he caught sight of Harry, eyes going comically round.

“Professor?” Harry called in the steadiest tone he could master.

“Oh, dear.” Slughorn appeared to have returned to his senses as if slapped or hit by a spell. However, his stare at the space beyond Harry’s shoulder was as plain as his agitation. “Come in, come in. Don’t stand in the doorway.”

The interior proved crowded, resembling Slughorn’s past living place like a mirror. Even the pictures of his most prized human trophies were placed in the exact same place, yet this time Harry’s face was nowhere to be seen. Harry surprised himself by the sudden burst of resentment at the fact. So he decided to abandon the nearly offensive display before he ruined this task from the very start.

“Professor,” Harry tried again, sitting without invitation on the brown sofa and indicated the chair opposite for Slughorn to do the same. “Excuse my unannounced visit. I wish to have an important discussion with you which is why I’m here in this manner. Please take a seat. I think it’ll take a while.”

Safe to say, the old Potions master did not seem keen on his excuse or the idea of sitting. He offered Harry a tight smile before gesturing to a closed door somewhere on the right, almost concealed behind a bookshelf.

“What about some tea first? Biscuits?”

Did Slughorn think him stupid? “No, professor, no need. Just sit.”

Slowly, his directions were followed. “My boy… I’m afraid your presence is rather self-explanatory, given current events. Hence, does the Dark Lord wish to… are you here to…?”

“I’m not here to kill you, rest assured. Yes, he may have sent me. But not for such a thing. I’ve only come with a simple offer. One I’ll strongly advise you take.”

A couple upstairs were feverishly arguing when a crash followed a colorful train of swear words. Slughorn leaned back in his chair, old bones creaking like a rusty door. He chose not to speak just yet, perhaps gathering his wits or waiting for the specific offer to be made first.

Fine then.

“So he obviously knows where to find you. Running is not in your best interest, that much is clear for everyone. Instead, Voldemort proposes an agreement. You have something he wants — the ability to safely communicate with the Order without repercussions. And what he wants is for you to deliver some direct messages. It’s not hard. There’s no blood involved, you’re not harming anyone. Just transmitting messages from time to time. I’ll be no trouble, none at all.”

“Harry… Even you don’t believe your own words. Otherwise you’d be displaying the same calm you did in your infamous speech at the Ministry.” The old man sighed. “Now you barely look me in the eye. Is it because you knew me before this lie?”

“Because I want you to survive. Only, _yes_ _,_ I will guarantee your life. You know how he gets when he’s told ‘no’.”

Slughorn gave a slow nod and his eyes filled with pity. “I certainly do, but not as much as you. You’ve become familiar with his personality, I imagine.”

It was Harry’s turn for silent admissions. “Is that a ‘yes’, then?”

“The consequences of a ‘no’ will affect you as well, as will it affect many others too,” Slughorn said. Harry did not deny this. “So _yes_ , it is how it is. He won already. One old man will not make a difference. But… how it is for you? Your life with him?”

“I live, that’s the most important thing. And I’m moving forward on the only road available… He’s the only one ensuring my survival at the moment. We’ll see where it leads with time.” The sudden sincerity of Harry’s words left a sour taste in his mouth and, judging from Slughorn’s gaze, the sentiment was shared. Or perhaps it was pity again?

It had become quiet upstairs again, the couple either back together or far apart. Harry found he missed the screams.

“Does Tom treat you well at least?”

Harry couldn’t help but smile. _Tom_. How innocent. How ironic. “I appreciate your sympathy, professor. He does. Better than he used to.”

“Oh. So… is this why you’re so keen to do things to his liking? Because it makes life bearable?”

“Yes and no. I feel that if I stop, everything will collapse — the good things and the bad. Then all efforts would have been in vain. So I don’t stop. He won’t let me either.” Justifying himself to others was far easier than justifying his actions to himself. Harry wetted his lips with the tip of his tongue. Should he go a little further? “He requested your company when I leave,” he went on, voice measured. “To clear things about what took place some nights ago…”

Slughorn was intrigued as he took the bait. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you see…” Harry’s body revolted against itself whilst sharing this story. But though it was excruciating, it was necessary in order to win Slughorn’s sympathy. Certainly far easier than investing in an intricate lie.

A frown decorated the old professor’s face, his mouth opening and closing on more than one occasion as Harry’s words were not placed under any doubt. _Why? Shouldn’t Harry be distrusted after his betrayal?_ Yet people had not ceased bowing to his will. Not all of them, but enough to double his value in the face of the Dark Lord. Those people knew so little and yet were so happy with that. If one thought in these terms, he and Voldemort truly improved lives and would perhaps continue improving far more in the future. Nothing was perfect, yet peace remained the endgame. Wasn’t that the purpose of war to begin with? They could do some good too.

Slughorn’s indignation at the assault in Voldemort’s house only partially reached Harry ears. He found he had dissociated from the conversation as well as the story. _Doge_. Dead. _Doge_. Dead. _Dead, dead,_ dead and lacking a chunk in his cheek. _Serve_ _d him right._ The insides of Harry’s mouth recalled the event far too well. But now he must think about something else — _though, please, let it not be the kiss!_

And he managed to do just that for quite some time before persistent words shattered his concentration. They were kind words, yes, but kind for whom?

“They did a terrible thing. A terrible, terrible thing,” the professor repeated, touching his brow with a shaking finger. “War makes people terrible, makes them violent. Even those who aren’t originally… This must be stopped. This… this violence. We’re killing our own people, each side.”

“Yes, Tom and I share the same belief.”

The use of his given name was a strategic move. If Slughorn still thought of the Dark Lord as his former student then let him do so. More to win, less to lose. It also posed quite a charming sentiment. _Tom_. Harry proved fond of uttering it.

At last, the torturous conversation had stretched until the time to leave had arrived.

“Coming, professor?”

“Ah, yes. Right now?”

Harry stood. “Yes. He’ll be waiting.”

And he was. Lord Voldemort watched them draw near, calm and patient at the bottom of the stairs as Harry felt Slughorn panic behind him. A peculiar panic that hid itself and was only made known through the visibly tense lines of his body. But Harry had more pressing matters to worry about than the professor’s fears. Other aspects of reality demanded his attention.

Namely, the handsome man nodding at his old professor in a mockery of respect. “Going my way?” Voldemort asked.

Harry and Slughorn stared in awe after the carelessly lighthearted comment. It meant only bad things were to come. For _someone_. An unlucky someone who had crossed — or was going to cross — paths with the Dark Lord. But was it bad news for Harry or the old professor? And in what way?

“Aren’t I always?”

Voldemort appeared amused by Harry’s response before he turned his eyes on the professor who had slowly come to stand beside Harry. A brief silence followed until Voldemort thought fit to break it, presumably content with the silent torture their unwilling guest was experiencing.

“Hello, professor. It’s been surprisingly long since we last met.”

“Yes, it seems you haven’t changed much.” A deep sigh. “Unlike myself, as you may already see.”

Slughorn seemed to be taking the discussion surprisingly well.

“But I have changed,” Voldemort replied. “Although it is not in a way that meets the eye, I’ve changed in more ways than one.”

The old professor appeared content to ignore Voldemort’s bait at a possibly harmful confrontation. Hands in his pockets, he waited. It proved more secure and rational, the only viable choice. He wasn’t a Slytherin for nothing.

After exchanging pleasantries, they got straight to business. Harry was the one to hold Slughorn’s hand while the Dark Lord held his. When he Apparated, the sharp tug from Harry’s belly gave way to chilly air and screams that froze his blood. Many, many screams. A choir of them.

Horrified, Slughorn let go and pulled away. Voldemort, however, did not. He continued to hold Harry’s hand and forced him to take in the gruesome sight. _Fire._ Scorching fire stalked closer and closer to the clear blue sky as the entire two-story house burned like a mundane campfire. Accompanying it were the sound of countless shrieks, surely the most horrifying sound that had ever met Harry’s ears.

It was a nightmare in broad daylight.

Slughorn gasped and Harry made to pull away or run to help, but it was no use. Voldemort’s grasp on his hand remained secure and vaguely threatening, a silent yet potent warning.

“Before anything else, you must listen to my words. Both of you.” Mysteriously, the man’s tone drowned out the screams of the people burning alive before their very eyes. _Magic. Wicked magic_. “I will not be chased out of my own home ever again. I will not have Harry hurt in my house ever again, or anywhere else for that matter. The Order will learn if they wish to survive my rule. This will serve as a lesson for them, and hopefully the only one needed. Professor, you can wipe that repulsed expression from your face. These men, women, and children were relatives to the ones who broke into my home and tried to rape my Harry. If we aim our hatred at whomever our enemy is fond of, everything is permitted. Punitive justice should extend to everyone. So look closely now. I will be most displeased if the Order were to miss this display of fair retribution.”

They were all being reduced to ashes while the sun continued to shine.

“Voldemort. They’re innocents,” Harry managed to mumble, forcing back the bile in his throat and trembling from head to toe. _Don_ _’t throw up, d_ _on_ _’t touch your wand. He won’t like it if you do._ “Children we were supposed to protect. They’re burning alive.”

Hands moved so quickly that Harry thought he was going to be hit. But the Dark Lord only cupped Harry’s cheeks with gentle fingertips, providing a welcoming cage. Trapped in the man’s grasp with his heart drumming like mad and his stomach roiling, Harry caught Voldemort’s wrists. The man allowed it. Whether it was to offer a sense of fleeting security or he, too, was lost in the moment. Last time they had been so close, it had ended in a feverish joining of lips. That certainly was not the case now.

Yet the air between their mouths tasted the same, even despite the burning bodies.

“Innocents, you say… But so are you. If our enemies play dirty, I will play dirty as well. But unlike them, I will win,” the man warned. “Tell me, Harry, did you know Doge had a wife and a child trapped in there? No? Now you do. Those who your friends tattled to are turning to ashes as we speak. Not all, but most. So keep that in mind regarding this betrayal, and who brought it into existence. Nobody cares about you, about me, about us. They’ve abandoned you — all your precious friends, your trusted mentors. All of them have turned their backs on you. But not me. Not even when you were weak.”

Yes, as perverse at it was, the monster had wanted him longer than anyone else. Had been faithful to him for as long as Harry could remember. Warmth spread inside the cave of his chest in a mockery of the raging fire only steps away. It was blasphemous. How could he feel for Lord Voldemort? How could he want his obsession to never let him go? Was this what he truly wished for in the deepest and most hidden corner of _their_ soul?

“Yes, Harry,” the man said, nodding as if he were aware of Harry’s thoughts. He nudged at the corner of Harry’s mouth with the pad of his fingers. “Sooner or later you’ll begin to dream of no one else but me. Perhaps then you’ll be happier.”

Like a _husband,_ the man spoke as if he were reciting his wedding vows. But it was not before a church, it was before the scene of a murder. With Slughorn as their only witness. An unwilling witness who tried to place significant distance between himself and the two terrifying scenes before his eyes. Either to offer privacy or out of some sense of self-preservation.

But when the old professor stumbled farther away, Voldemort decided to return to decency — touching wise, at least. The house wasn’t near total cremation yet but there were fewer screams. Harry went over to Slughorn after being set free from the wicked hands. The Dark Lord was sure to follow.

 

*** * ***

 

The sight was revolting and summoned both anger and tears. But they witnessed it to the very end, until Slughorn had turned his back on them. The screams, the fire, all that death — and the two who basked in the glory of it all, uttering sweet words to one another. It all accompanied that cursed image: Of Harry’s pale face cradled in You-Know-Who’s hands while the monster’s hands were cradled by Harry in turn. _They’ve abandoned you — all your precious friends, your trusted mentors. All of them have turned their backs on you. But not me. Not even when you were weak_ _._

The bastard forgot to mention who had abandoned who first.

Everyone’s faces sported the same expression when leaving the Pensive, save for Slughorn. The professor was the first to sit with a cup of hot tea Molly had just made. For all the world appearing nonchalant, as if waiting for a dreaded event to be done with.

 _Do burn your tongue_ , Hermione thought with venom.

Meanwhile Lupin, Kingsley, Ron and the rest of the Weasleys all had their eyes downcast while Hermione’s hands fisted in her hair. This was it, all their precious proof. But the horror! If this was the story they served to the public, what went on behind closed doors? What was Harry like then? And the monster?

“He murdered them as if it was nothing. _Everyone_. And still Harry just stood alongside him, with that shameless monstrosity who is only thirsty for blood. Even now,” Ron raved, the first to speak.

Slughorn shrugged, sipping his tea without a single visible care. “Mister Weasley… Forgive me, but the Order attacked what he perceived to be his possession in his own house. What else besides violence would you expect as a response from Tom?”

“Are you placing blame on our side?” Kingsley’s question was answered with a dismissive gesture by the potions professor.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions just yet. It brings little benefit to either side. As I was saying—”

“You may say whatever you wish but people are dead!” Hermione spoke up. “Men, women, and children. Burned alive while you and Harry watched from the sidelines in _his_ company!”

“Yes, Ms Granger. I know. Better than you can possibly imagine. Yet the Order was the one to strike first when the Dark Lord proposed peace. Is his violence in face of your failure really that surprising?”

“But we… we didn’t expect Doge was going to do anything like… _like that_ ,” Mrs Weasley muttered, hand on Ginny's shoulder. Too unnerved to utter the word _rape_.

“We should have,” Kingsley sighed. “Hatred is harbored in many hearts regarding Harry Potter and his disloyalty to our cause. I imagine any civilized reactions that remained had faded at the sight of the boy in You-Know-Who’s house, well-fed and refusing to leave… At least that is what I’ve gathered from what he’s told Horace.”

“Perhaps Harry’s lying,” reasoned Ron. “To justify murder, to gain sympathy.”

“I disagree,” Slughorn interrupted. “Tom’s hatred for those people was real, tangible, and most of all, provoked. Believe me, he does not require an excuse for violence. Yet your companions served him one on a silver platter. One that turned his stomach upside down.”

And now what? The waiting game for a solution did not arrive at its expected end. Because what solution could there be? They only had an umbrella in the face of a hurricane. What were the odds of victory? It could only be defeat, defeat, defeat. Or surrender. Moral and practical arguments aside, both tasted just as sour. And, truth be told, Hermione already knew Kingsley had already made a decision. Did she support it? No. But would she fight it? Also no. It had been clear ever since the dark-skinned wizard had accepted Slughorn’s offer to visualize the memories of the encounter with the dreaded duo. In the back of their minds everyone knew, and perhaps it was the reason why the _for_ and _against_ discussions were this minimal.

Expressing anger in a useless manner proved incredibly satisfying, as her mother used to say.

Hermione missed the simpler times. The summer vacations at home with her parents, the laughs, the discussions about either the wonders of magic or the peculiar happenings in the muggle world. She missed politics, economics, books, the most interesting patients her father had seen to that day and their crooked teeth. She also missed the hugs. Those warm, never ending hugs which always meant safety. Now there was nothing left of that to be experienced. Not as long as Hermione refused to live in a lie as she was so tempted to do.

Now it was a living nightmare of terror and bloodshed that some would call justice. _Justic_ _e_ — how was it possible to stare at this many corpses and think to yourself _‘_ _I_ _’ve chosen well’_? True, what Doge had tried do to Harry was abominable, but to burn innocent people alive just to prove a point? It exceeded the concept of justice and trespassed into terror. For You-Know-Who, only a tiny excuse was needed to justify murder when it came to public matters. And in private? Limits were no more than a useless theory never to be applied.

Harry could not possibly be this blind. Not when he had witnessed such things firsthand. And if he was not blind… then that just made him a monster as well. The one who took part in evil could be nothing else but evil as well. Even a little evil was evil.

While Hermione thought on all this, the discussion went on around her. Everyone went over different approaches while Slughorn remained quiet. Bend their necks in front of You-Know-who, yes… but how low? Where to cease and where to try for amends? Could they even dare suggest amends? The old professor mentioned the possibility of _briefly_ negotiating, which translated to _most likely not_.

“So he wants us to talk,” Lupin trailed on, voice unsure, waving a hand in front of him. “With him? Lucius Malfoy or… Harry?”

Hermione shuddered and Kingsley voiced her thoughts.

“It would still be his words, no matter the speaker. Make no mistake. Should we arrange a diplomatic meeting with either Lucius or Harry, it will be You-Know-Who’s wishes pouring out of their mouths in various degrees of arrogance.”

“Then we’re going ahead with this encounter?” Hermione asked.

Kingsley’s eyes briefly travelled to the armchair in which Slughorn sat. The warning was swift and clear. _Don_ _’t say too much_. “Yes, peace is in our interest. I hope Mister Slughorn will be kind enough to relate our proposal to the Dark Lord.”

“Yes, of course. Right away.”

Their best interest also happened to be Harry’s best interest. The end the same, yet the means… Hermione’s once best friend chose to play a treacherous game under the rationality of non-aggression. _Noble_. But dangerous. For Harry was placing his faith in a monster and hoping that monster would bring him peace.

In turn, their group placed no faith in the vague possibility of an accord. The possibility to learn more was another story. And from where could one better learn the story than from the source itself?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on tumblr @lordmarvoloriddle


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Millions and millions of interminable thanks to the most wonderful beta that exists in this entire world (~˘▾˘)~ Vanillaghost. Thank you for your patience and most of all, for your time 💕💕💕

 

“Welcome home.”

The patter of snow and cold proved difficult to miss. That, or Harry proved to be a slow learner.

“This isn’t a home. Not _just_ a home, anyway. This is a _palace_.”

And it was. An immaculate building that stretched three stories into the sky, bright and pretty. Certainly a palace if Harry had ever seen one. Snow rested on the vast roof, shimmering in the morning light. The countless windows were large and most of them double. There was also an occasional balcony here and there, the largest being on the second floor and right in the middle. It all screamed _palace_. Even Lihko seemed to agree, stretching out her neck in Harry’s arms just to survey the unknown.

“Our home,” voiced the man as he climbed the first steps leading up to the monstrous castle.

And as always, Harry followed, taking care not to trip on the marble floors which resembled ice for how smooth and sleek they were. “Yes, another one. Just like the past two. But where are we? It’s too cold for England and we don’t have buildings like these back home.”

“Leningrad.”

“Sankt-Petersburg?”

“Petrograd, Leningrad. Choose whatever name you fancy.”

“Leningrad it is. So we’re all the way in freezing Russia. Did we run away?”

Voldemort shot a quick glance behind him, his gaze hiding an ounce of wrath. “Is this the note you wish to gift our conversation? One of accusation?”

“I just asked a question.”

“You did far more. Now follow me,” Voldemort said, though violence lurked beneath his handsome face and measured gestures.

The grand golden doors flew open and, yes, it was a palace indeed. A enormous palace so large that they had to walk nearly four minutes to reach the ostensive study to which the man lead the way. No pictures or paintings decorated the walls, only rows of books and old clocks entirely muggle in nature. Or so it seemed, but who knew? This chamber was more _meeting room_ than _private study,_ yet surely it had to do with its abnormal size. Aside from the desk and chairs, it hosted two couches with twice as many chairs, a coffee table, and — judging from what Harry glimpsed — another similar arrangement on the balcony. Had the Dark Lord stolen a castle? From whom?

“After extensive reading, visits to countless places, and precious time lost in the process... I found it, at last. Just like I said I would.”

Harry placed Likho on the coffee table and scratched at her fluffy ears, his back to the Dark Lord. Quite content, she purred; a guttural sound low in her throat. “Found what?” Harry asked. “This palace? How?”

“No, not our home. What we discussed at the start of our fruitful partnership, or have you already forgotten? I found a safe way to extract my horcrux from inside your body. You can finally experience true liberation.”

 _Silence_ _, fear,_ _r_ _efusal_ _._

Then tentative acceptance.

Finding the stroking fingers suddenly stiff, Likho chose to flee a tense and potentially painful hold. With dry lips, Harry spoke, disregarding the departure of their little witch. “Oh.” He faced Voldemort to find he was already being watched, studied beyond the cage of his flesh, _deep deep deep_ into his mind. “You didn’t find this out overnight, I’d imagine. So… why have you waited to share the good news?” He could not help his tone turning sour. “Engaging in another game, are we?”

“Games follow patterns,” came the cryptic answer.

 _Am I useless now?_ was the question that hesitated on Harry’s lips.

“I achieved this branch of magic yet I will not make use of it. Yes, my horcrux, fear not and conceal the amazed glint dancing in your green eyes. The answer to _why_ I won’t is both intricate and clear. Due to a whim of ownership, an unnamed game. A theoretical one, as of now…"

“I’m not a dog,” Harry said as the Dark Lord neared, eating at the distance separating them. Handsome, intimidating, and filled with purpose. He circled the writing desk, approaching the coffee table like a wolf would a deer. Wasting no time, he invaded Harry’s personal space. First by an obscenely little amount of distance between their bodies, then by touch.

But a fairly innocent one.

Cold fingers walked down Harry’s cheek. “True.” Warm breath washed down Harry’s face in contradiction to the iciness soaking his face. “But you _are_ mine.”

_He was, wasn_ _’_ _t he?_

“Fine, then, _my lord_. I trust you’ll look after this possession better than you have done until now.”

A nod followed a gentle squeeze of the fingers holding Harry’s cheeks, the gesture reminding him that it could also not be so gentle. “I trust in your self-preservation instincts as well. Clever boy that you are, you know what’s good for you and who can provide it. So consider this a fair warning, my Harry, for unfortunate times are perhaps soon to arrive. Don’t ruin this tentative trust of ours, for not even my magic could hope to rebuild it.”

It was an unnecessary threat but one that gave room for a forbidden yet much desired territory. A kind of territory that took into consideration their proximity. A certain type of intimacy that followed such a touch when their eyes have long since been locked together. Again, Lord Voldemort was offering a bait he did not wish to assume. But the baiting must have amused the man dangling it nonetheless.

Well, they had to pass the time somehow.

“In the muggle park... why did you kiss me?” Harry asked, throwing caution out the window and throwing himself away with it.

“Because I wanted to.”

Harry frowned. “But why?”

“Because you wanted me to.”

The racing of Harry’s heart was going crazy while the temptation waited in front of his lips. “And what do you think I want now?” he asked, feeling both very brave and very stupid.

The corners of Voldemort’s lips curled up in what might have been amusement. “Careful, horcrux,” came the warning. “Test the waters before you dive in.”

“Why? Should I expect to drown? If not, then what else are you preparing me for?”

“Nothing you don’t want.”

The filthiness of that sentence made Harry second guess his proposal. Yet the big step had already been taken, had been taken with a _jump_. The look in those grey eyes confirmed it even more than the fingers trapping Harry’s face.

In an unhurried movement, Voldemort leaned down to kiss the side of Harry’s neck. Harry sighed, tilting his chin up just like an obedient and eager pet. _Back away from the monster! No, bare your neck to the monster!_ The Dark Lord’s grasp played with his face as he so chose, turning it from side to side as if conducting an inspection. The press of the man’s lips turned open-mouthed and traveled up, trailing shivers across Harry’s skin from each place the lips grazed. _Yes, yes, bare your neck to the monster. Show him how starved you are._

_He knows, you stupid child. Lord Voldemort knows._

The fiery wet touch was at his cheek, then his chin, and finally at the corners of Harry’s mouth. _It was glorious_. Harry whimpered as if in pain, twisting his fingers into dark hair so soft in his palms, so misleading. He did not push away but pulled closer in hopes for another kiss, a proper one.

“Look at me,” Voldemort whispered between their mouths. “Tell me.”

Harry’s hold grew more secure while the other, far larger, body met his and pressed into Harry. Or pressed Harry into _him_. But in the blink of an eye the Dark Lord seized Harry’s chin rather forcefully, all pretence of gentleness cast aside.

“ _I said to look at me and tell me_.”

“Yes,” Harry nodded, gulping down his panic and tremors. _This was happening, something was happening_ , _something was changing, something was shattering_. “Yes, yes to everything you wish for.”

“Not a single scared thought?”

“No. I trust you.”

Harry trusted Lord Voldemort and, well, wasn’t that the peak of hilarity?

But Harry barely had time to come to terms with the realization when his clothes suddenly melted away from his limbs. Like water running down your body after you stood from a bathtub, Harry was left shivering. For Voldemort’s warmth had retreated as well.

A distance of two steps separated them now and the man’s gaze seized him from head to toe. Harry’s hands rested at his sides as he tackled the urge to cover himself in shame. The Dark Lord would be most displeased by such a coy display, as he most certainly found pleasure in what met his gaze. Therefore, any show of humility was out of the question.

The eyes were what gave Voldemort away; the fire in them, the vague narrowing of their shape that bordered on threatening. There was only plain hunger to read in them. The grey was hidden by pupils when a pure black obscured his gaze. It promised and threatened, and Harry could not help but compare himself to a virginal bride on her wedding night when the husband expected her to _perform_. Harry was just as clueless. What was worse, he knew Lord Voldemort would demand far more than any ordinary husband.

“You’d look pretty on your knees.” It was a million miles away from a suggestion. “Prettier than you already are, _Harry_. And how pretty you already are even when you breathe, _Harry_.” The way Voldemort said his name sounded like something else. Like he was alluding to other things that were not quite as innocent as a name.

The Dark Lord’s steps padded against the wooden floors as he backed away to the sofa and rested there. Legs spread, he smirked; an invitation.

Feeling both filthy and untouched, but wanting it all the same, Harry stepped forward. His stomach tightened in anticipation and he ached.

And Voldemort — no, _Tom_ _—_ saw.

He saw and he smiled, and waited. Harry’s mouth became dry at the sight. Wordless, he fell to his knees, fingers folding into the expensive material of Voldemort’s trousers in an attempt to soften his nerves. It burned beneath his palms. Either from himself or the man’s skin.

As Harry worked Tom’s fly open, sudden realization bubbled inside his chest. _H_ _e was going to suck the Dark Lord off._ Harry trembled from head to toe as he struggled, to no avail, to grasp the entire width of Voldemort’s cock in one hand. It was the first cock he had touched besides his. In the end, Harry settled for using both his palms and began a tentative movement of _up and down_ that stole a moan from the man above him. Strangely, Harry could feel his pulse beneath his fingertips, thrumming almost in time with his panicked heartbeat. It felt like victory.

Then following both his wish and Voldemort’s impatient hold on his hair, Harry took the head of the Dark Lord’s member inside his mouth.

Breathing through his nose, Harry made to gently bob his head up and down Tom’s length to get used to the taste of him and the feeling of a cock between his lips when Voldemort suddenly _thrust_ himself inside Harry’s mouth and twisted the dark strands of his hair in his palms. Harry gagged, fingers burying themselves in the firm thighs on either side of him. His breath was being stolen from him. None of his childish fumblings in the dark had alluded to something this monumental. Perhaps the bed partner made all the difference. Harry wouldn’t know.

“Poor child…” chided Tom with a voice full of pity. “Are you choking?”

Harry nodded his desperation, pushing with the heel of his palms against the Dark Lord’s legs. “Such a pity,” he heard from above before Voldemort yanked at a handful of his hair and his cock met the back of Harry’s throat.

The term _face-fucking_ gathered meaning from then on as his throat was fucked to Voldemort’s heart’s desire. A litany of _stop_ and _don’_ _t stop_ mingled in Harry’s mouth, between his tongue and Tom’s cock. But neither plea left his lips though the Dark Lord must have known already. Rationally, Harry was well aware he wouldn’t die like this, yet when Voldemort’s member cut his air supply… he tended to panic, body jolting, hands fighting for freedom. The man’s chuckle turned into full on laughter.

“You’ll learn, you’ll learn,” the man sighed, at last slipping his length from Harry’s mouth as saliva dangerously delayed the separation. It coated his still erect cock and Harry’s quivering lips and chin. How obscene he must look… And those grey eyes confessed it all.

“I—” Harry managed between ragged breaths, staring up at a smirking Voldemort. But then Harry seemed to lose his voice. Though his eyes held things that were all wrong, all filthy, and all promising, there was still shelter in Tom’s gaze. Promises, and something akin to adoration. A desire for many things, countless things, forever things. Harry lifted his dirty chin and his body followed as he found balance on Voldemort’s thighs and sought a kiss that readily came his way. “You’ll teach me, my lord.”

The Dark Lord’s growl was animalistic, echoing into every fiber of Harry’s being as he was yanked up into the man’s lap and kissed as if his soul was at stake. Hands roamed Harry’s heated body as the bruised skin of his knees found solace on the soft sofa.

And Harry touched too, pushing troublesome clothing out of the way, brushing a strong chest with his palms, and took hold of what had been inside his mouth only moments before. But mostly he kissed every inch of that unfairly handsome face. The perfect nose, the sharp cheekbones, the smooth forehead, those eyelids hiding Voldemort’s desire. And that filthy, _filthy_ mouth.

“My little whore,” Tom sneered when Harry grazed his teeth against his neck. “My pretty harlot eager to spread his legs for his parents’ killer.” He rocked hard into Harry’s body with each crude word. “Mine, mine, mine.” 

“My vicious beast,” Harry echoed with a gasp. “You are mine too.”

Truth always left the deepest scars.

When a suspicious wetness dripped from his entrance, Harry supposed that was the beginning of vengeance. The sore muscles of his legs trembled like a leaf with the need to shut them closed yet Voldemort offered no chance for a safe retreat.

Harry was on his back in a heartbeat on the same sofa which appeared to have doubled in size. The careless display of power had Harry opening his legs at once, craving the body to cover his soon. Though strange at first, skilful fingers slid inside him and Voldemort fitted so well between his thighs. The weight of him crushing his chest was perfection as their eyes held each other. To Harry’s surprise, Tom’s expression must have mirrored his for he tipped his head down, kissing him slow and deep while he pushed inside.

It hurt and Harry’s own cock ached for a genuine touch, not just friction. But the Dark Lord was commanding with the way he mouthed at the corner of Harry’s lips and pinned him down on the black material of the sofa while he rocked his hips forward. He overwhelmed Harry. It came as no surprise but it shook his world just as well.

_The Dark Lord was fucking him._

And oh, how he welcomed it — wanted it badly enough to cross his legs around the man’s waist in a stubborn attempt to have him go even deeper, to a place deep and far enough inside him that he could meet his own soul.

“You look so good stretched around my cock,” Voldemort grunted in the shell of Harry’s ear.

Harry only managed to gasp, to nod and gasp and spread his legs wider and gasp some more. _All for his parents’ killer_. Somehow, in the middle or the beginning or along the way — in this consuming act of perversity — he had begun to shake from pleasure. The bones from his lower parts creaked like twigs yet Harry pushed and pushed. Voldemort stole so much from him; pleas, cries, kisses, love. All of this from one tiny shred of soul.

Until, at last, Harry came — open mouthed and quivering, body jolting, hands grasping at Voldemort’s torso while the man chased his own pleasure, ramming his cock in and out of Harry’s body while whispering filthy things into his ear. _My filthy little bitch, my precious horcrux, my whore._ _Look at me, Harry. Witness who_ _’_ _s taking you apart. Be a good boy for me. Yes, just like that. Good boy. Only for me._

Voice lost and his entrance full of both the Dark Lord’s member and his hot come, Harry stared up at the gold decorated ceiling. His fingers threaded through Voldemort’s damp hair as he panted against Harry’s cheeks. His large body kept Harry wide open, possessive and authoritative as they lay intertwined for a while.

“See? There was no drowning,” Harry let out on a frail laugh.

“Yet.” Leaning on his elbows Tom’s eyes were gentle but his words cruel. And his next thrust ended up somewhere in between.

Harry whimpered and sought Voldemort’s lips, feeling the limp cock harden inside him once again.

 

*** * ***

 

“Apologies for interrupting your adultery, but legal obligations cannot wait.”

Barty’s mouth twitched as he said the words. In an unforeseen yet amusing manner, Dolohov had chosen this specific morning to fuck his mistress, or whoever the young brunette girl gathering her skirts was. She certainly was not Dolohov’s wife. The girl’s glare was somehow intimidating as she passed Barty, calling out a confident _‘_ _later_ _’_ to her lover before she left.

“Later, princess,” the Death Eater called back, staring after her figure for a disturbing amount of time until at last he sat up from the living room sofa and pulled together his pants. “Haven’t you heard of knocking?” He didn’t sound particularly resentful.

“Perhaps. Where’s your wife?”

“Praying. Friends. Praying with her friends.” _The usual_ , suggested Dolohov’s passive tone. “For what legal obligations did you interrupt my leisure time?”

“ _Our_ leisure time will go to hell if this specific something is not put to rest.”

That seemed to pique the man’s interest. “Tell me.”

And so Barty did. The problem was rather simple. Draco’s silly mistake had raised pertinent questions. The type that stunk like betrayal and stabbed you in the back in a dark alley. And if that was not the case, then his _secret_ meetings with the mudblood and the blood traitor held no rational explanation. And right under Lucius’s nose, of all places!

“You think Lucius’ son may be selling us to the enemy? In spite of his father’s affiliation?”

“I think young Malfoy may be making many mistakes. Mistakes that may affect our cause and our lord.” The hairs on Barty’s arms raised, escorted by countless goosebumps. “My dilemma is whether to spread the word to the Dark Lord or deal with it myself, all risks considered?”

“It’s not like you to ask,” his companion noted while they sat on chairs summoned out of thin air.

 _True_.

“Things have changed. The war has changed. And the changes our dark lord wanted are being made with Potter’s hands, slowly, looking the lesser public in the eye. A disturbance on our side could be damaging.”

Dolohov’s smirk promised vicious rumors.

“Oh, young Potter… the Dark Lord plays him well and in more ways than one, from what I’ve gathered. But I’m sure you’re seeking advice and perhaps an accomplice concerning the problem of Lucius’ possible reaction. I image he will not be too pleased if either us or our lord obliterated his sole heir. And think of the commotion… of finances and the matter of our ideological homogeneity. There’s also the alternative, however. Of having a private and discreet conversation with young Malfoy—”

“A traitor is always a traitor. What’s rotten will remain rotten.”

A hand went through Dolohov’s dark hair. “Then what about Harry Potter?”

_Harry Potter._

Barty knew Harry Potter, had been the boy’s teacher not so long ago. He understood what the Dark Lord saw in him, the capacity for cold rationality when offered an intelligent purpose, a tangible goal. The determination, the complete dedication. And that pretty face which may be the object of his Lord’s obsession but was the subject of many dirty whispers and presumptions among fellow Death Eaters. None knew for sure. None dared to ask.

“Harry Potter is something else,” Barty said. “There’s no point in comparing him to Malfoy.”

“Seems the same to me. Betrayed someone’s trust and his past mission.”

“No, the mission remains the same. Only the solution is different. Besides, do you think our lord would tolerate doubt in those close to him? Now, on the matter of Draco…”

To tell their lord or ignore the issue?

Or kill?  


*** * ***

 

“What do you really feel when you see me naked?”

The hold of those grey eyes was lewd. “Poor thing… are you this frightened of my thoughts?”

Harry had remained naked upon request. Or, better put, due to a gleeful order. A private show for the man who already possessed everything Harry’s body had to offer. Harry himself stood before him, a mockery of a prize. For there was no point in hiding now when all boundaries had been plundered and buried in the ground.

Harry crossed his ankles in hopes of a little decency as he rested on Voldemort’s chair behind the tall writing desk. The man in question was on his feet, in only a pair of black pants with, of all things, a cigarette in his mouth and no window ajar. His eyes, naturally, were on Harry.

“I’m frightened of you,” Harry admitted.

Voldemort’s smirk confirmed the feeling. “Clever boy.” The tone was nearly contemplative and did not match the crude words at all. A contradiction.

The sight before Harry left him needy for this predator of a man. With broad shoulders and well-defined muscles, he stood towering over Harry like both the sun and the moon. This man who had been inside him, his parents’ killer. To all hells! The delicious thrill that slid down Harry’s spine was a curse. What other touch measured to that of the Dark Lord? Who else could compare?

 _None_.

The grey gaze did not leave Harry’s face and instead looked more contemplative. Then the space between them dissolved as Voldemort leaned down and Harry leaned up. The man’s mouth twitched as, in an absent manner, he tucked a strand of hair behind Harry’s ear. “Clever boy,” he echoed. “But… leave those childish fears behind. You have been my most favoured source of entertainment for years, Harry. My interest will not be so easily lost, so breathe easy.”

Blunt nails scraped at his scalp and Harry hated how needy he acted. For the other’s presence, for his touch, for Voldemort’s breath on his face and his fingers in Harry’s hair that left him starry-eyed and as flustered as a schoolgirl. Like a virgin.

It was strange. He had thought that once the flame for Voldemort had been sated, he’d become contemptuous and cold. Not feel a bigger hunger. For the hunger to return, the same one that guided his very life. But he wanted it and he was wanted as well… at least parts of him were. The young and appealing exterior, the precious interior, body and soul. But what about _Harry_?

Something lurked between the vacancy separating their skins. It proved an inescapable question.

“I want something from you,” Voldemort uttered, taking a long drag of his cigarette as his fingers continued to smother Harry’s hair.

Of course he did. They always returned to the discussion of _them_.

“And you’re the one to ask first?”

“Yes, Harry,” the man replied with a frown, fingers stalling their journey. “Partnerships tend to work that way. Now, on this lovely morning after our lovely evening, I want you to make me a promise. For the sake of both of us and this world. Before anything else follows.” The contemplative demeanour commenced its offence. “If the time should arrive when you lose your trust in me, or when circumstances become too rough, I want you to tell me first. No lies, simply tell me the wrong and I’ll fix it. I only ask for the chance to change your mind again.”

This was… unexpected. A promise for a promise, and accompanied by a touch? Dare this be called sincerity?

But no, sex and the need to posses did not translate into sincerity and did not change the man before Harry’s eyes a single bit. Perhaps Harry himself had no right to beg for changes in the other man when he had been the one to shift the rehearsed dance so abruptly. He inched back from Voldemort’s space and from his hands. “And you’ll make me swallow my protests and convictions yet again.”

“If you enjoy it now, you’ll enjoy the test even then.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“Neither do you. But don’t hide what you’ve become from me. We are the farthest thing from strangers, especially after last night. Harry... don’t hide how much you want me to fuck you this very moment. Don’t play the pure and bashful damsel in my presence,” the Dark Lord spat.

Harry paled at the cruelty swimming in Voldemort’s eyes. He suddenly wished for clothes badly enough it hurt. Placing his hands over his face, he sighed. “Stop, please stop.” His voice quivered, raising his exasperated gaze. “I don’t… I don’t understand what is happening. We’re bad then we’re good, then absolutely amazing, then we’re bad again! What should I do? I lie for you! I want you! I tolerate your malice. But you… you say you wish something for us but your _attitude_ … Tom, what are you really doing?”

Maybe it was the forbidden name or Harry’s outburst, but the next thing Harry knew, the ashtray and few cups from the desk went smashing to the floor with a loud _bang_ _._

The ensuing silence was only punctuated by their fevered breaths. The Dark Lord had lost his calm. “We’re not doing this,” he growled, shadowing Harry with his eyes, his words, his posture.

“Yes we are,” insisted Harry, lifting his chin.

“Marvelous,” Voldemort said, and Harry’s eyes fell to his throat where he watched it contract with a painful swallow. “Tell me, Harry… what more do you want from me? Love confessions?”

“This is hopeless.” Harry stood in all his naked glory and fought to erase the image of the crack in Tom’s uncaring facade behind his eyelids. “Let’s talk another time, when you want to talk. I don’t want us to argue.”

“Harry! Don’t turn your back on me.”

Harry was reminded of past threats but for some reason this one rang hollow. “Funny, that’s not what you were saying last night.”

It was finally, at that moment, when _Tom_ showed kindness to Harry’s harshness and let him go. He did not run after Harry, and neither did his vile magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on tumblr @lordmarvoloriddle


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Millions and millions of interminable thanks to the most wonderful beta that exists in this entire world (~˘▾˘)~ Vanillaghost. Thank you for your patience and most of all, for your time 💕💕💕

 

“This… _cappuccino_ thing… is it tasty?”

Hermione raised her eyebrows, aiming to conceal an inappropriate laugh at the question. Draco would surely lose his temporary cool over such a display. Instead, she went for a more professional approach. “Yes, very tasty. It also has different flavors like chocolate and vanilla but I recommend hazelnut.”

And so hazelnut it was. When the time to order came, the boy pulled a sour face at the pronounced accent of the waitress before he leaned over the table, discreetly casting a privacy ward after she left.

“Alright, Granger, let’s get straight to it. The rumored invite. Will your people go?”

She had to admit Draco exuded a different vibe. He wasn’t as vindictive as he once had been, but instead alert. The kind of alertness that best fit a person who looked thrice over their shoulder before entering their own bathroom. The blond had just done that exact thing, in fact, when Hermione lead them into a cozy pub on the outskirts of Liverpool to discuss the peculiarity of one official invitation which arrived that very morning. Who could blame him? Who could blame her?

“We confirmed our attendance, naturally, but… what have _you_ heard?”

Draco’s answer was cut short by the arrival of their drinks. Both of them waited in tense silence for the girl to go away again. Which, seconds later, she did. Perhaps taking notice of their poorly concealed impatience and tapping fingers.

“Nothing, there’s nothing,” Draco sighed, running a hand through his pale hair. “I only know what father knows and father knows what the general public knows. Namely, that this is the first opportunity for a ‘fruitful negotiation’ between the two sides. You know, all that propaganda he’s been suffocating us all with. Seeing as everyone has been informed of this meeting, there’s no real chance for any aggression. So from that point of view it’s safe, but…”

“But?” Hermione insisted.

“It’s rubbish. You don’t actually think You-Know-Who is going to make concessions that would be for anyone’s benefit but himself. The meeting is nothing but a great farce to give people the impression he’s negotiating, that he can be reasonable.”

“It’s not like we can’t _not go_.”

“True…”

“But Draco, do you know who we’re meeting? Will it be him or—?”

A grimace found its way onto the blond’s already sour face, an answer in itself. “Potter. The Ministry officials were only informed at noon — paperwork, I suppose.”

 _Harry_.

Harry. Their Harry. _You-Know-Who_ _’_ _s Harry_. But who was Harry now truly? An enemy or an ally? Or someone in between?

 _So many doubts_.

But then Hermione remembered the boy watching innocent people being burned alive and she lost all hope. Whatever the truth was, no one could afford to trust Harry. Yes, plans always changed and his aid remained a thing of the past. They were on their own now with no savior in sight.

“Will he be alone?” Hermione asked.

“Officially.”

“ _Oh_.”

Draco took a long sip of his cappuccino, all sighs and downcast eyes. One would think _he_ was on the losing side, not her.

“How are things for you?” Hermione inquired in response to his unease.

It appeared Draco’s entire being had been waiting for this question for he suddenly became animated as if lit by a spark — a dark one, but still a spark. “Far from ideal,” he began. “My family has fallen from the Dark Lord’s graces. _Unofficially_ , of course. We’re not called upon for much anymore. Father is taking care of Ministry business and…” A grimace. “Other Death Eaters have begun to notice we’re on thin ice. I shouldn’t even be here having this conversation with you, being a… well…”

“My associates wouldn’t approve either.”

The following silence was conspiratorial, comfortable, nearly warm. One shared with an ally, perhaps a trusted spy. Yet Draco was neither, he simply… passed on seemingly harmless information from time to time. But usefulness aside, one had to be blind not to see how afraid Draco was of what their world had become, of You-Know-Who. The safe haven that was his family now hung by a thread while a wicked man held sharp scissors, ever ready to deliver the final cut. Hermione was engulfed with pity at witnessing the once proud boy reduced to this uneasy individual. She shouldn’t but, nonetheless, she did. Draco invoked pity, unlike a certain someone.

The ensuing lump in her throat at the thought was no surprise.

They chatted some more over another two cappuccinos, both stalling the inevitable return to the real world full of unspeakable horrors. Hermione to a crowded house soaked in death-gripping worries and Draco to a never-ending horror game where one single wrong move may lead to his demise.

Before Disapparating in the back alley of the shop, the boy delivered one last grim warning.

“Don’t expect too much from Potter. Whether the Dark Lord is there with him or not, the conversation always ends on his terms, leaving no room for contradictions.”

Perhaps, she thought foolishly, the _always_ might bend to another will other than the Dark Lord’s this time. Just this once.

The thought adopted the quality of a prayer.

 

*** * ***

 

Though stupid and self-deprecating, Harry basked in remorse. _He, the sole victim!_ From her place lazing by the window, bathing in the afternoon sunlight, Likho only served as a living reminder of Voldemort’s care and Harry’s scorn of it. One adorable attempt to cure his loneliness. But the man’s actions… It was one contradiction after another. What was Harry supposed to believe? What was said or what was done? Or was it perhaps better to believe nothing at all?

In hindsight, Harry’s decision had already been made, sewn together one thread at a time.

Now dressed far more warmly than just bare skin, Harry marched to the Dark Lord’s bedroom and knocked twice, his heart thumping in irregular patterns. Yet there was no answer. Harry knocked again with the same result. Then he tried the door but it was locked, so he called for Voldemort but still there was nothing. He went to search the study, the deserted kitchens, a few other rooms, before beginning to panic. The Dark Lord wouldn’t… he wouldn’t leave without notice, right?

The idea to venture outside was one borne out of desperation. A thick layer of ice coated the snowy stairs leading to the enormous backyard, a joyless reminder of a day full of coldness that seemed to have happened years ago. So when Harry caught sight of the Dark Lord himself casually surveying their vast surroundings, he naturally did not look at his feet while calling out a hopefully promising greeting.

“Hello, lover.”

“Hello, princess.”

Three steps later, Harry was pushing himself off the icy ground, hands quivering with the sudden memory of the lake, the drowning cold and freezing bones. He pictured heat yet an unwanted bulky body pressed against his and blocked his vision. Then his tremor ceased for bigger hands took hold of his and Harry was pulled against a familiar chest. _Warmth, security, desire. Peace._ He came looking for reconciliation yet found something else entirely. Breathing in and out, Harry’s fingers twisted in the thick material of Tom’s coat.

When he was held this way it was always _Tom_.

“I’m sorry for this morning,” he whispered into Tom’s neck, unable to bear the silence and the uncertainty it hid. “I was selfish. You do try and I apologise for insinuating any less. My expectations were not rational considering the nature of our relationship and for that I’m terribly sorry.”

The body glued to his went taut at the carefully chosen words yet Voldemort’s breathing proved not to change. He was as calm and collected as ever as he cradled Harry who briefly pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. The embrace turned vaguely uncomfortable when it began to tease at being something more. _Have faith in him_ , Harry reminded himself in face of such an uncertain prospect. _Don_ _’_ _t doubt him even when he_ _’_ _s cruel to you. He does not know any better, yet he tries in other respects_ _. He’_ _s getting better._ That fact alone should not be a matter of misconception. They were not how they used to be and that was good.

“I gave you enough rope to hang yourself with yet you did not. I confess myself impressed. Clever boy. Clever, clever boy.”

 _Have faith in him_ , Harry insisted but aloud said, “What a vicious mouth you have.” He clung to Voldemort with further desperation, conveying what mere words could not hope to achieve. Eyes closed, he inhaled the man’s masculine scent while hands roamed his body as if checking for broken bones while he whispered sweet nothings into Harry’s ear.

“Yes, my horcrux, good. You understand I did not promise charity but a bargain. A sweet one but a bargain nonetheless. You desire me and what do I desire? I desire you as well. This is why I tolerate your foolishness. Nothing has changed, least of all me. Not in the way you may wish.” His lips brushed Harry’s skin and he nearly laughed. “But here you are, with me, and this is good. Just us.”

 _Us_ — The word echoed in Harry’s chest. He may not be truly forgiven but it made little difference in the end. An _us_ had escaped Voldemort’s lips, which meant the road stretched far ahead and the initial plan remained the same. A confirmation, a promise. Harry was desired in turn.

They kissed like they were on fire. Every hair on Harry’s body stood up where the man touched. _His skin_ _s_ _ang in pleasure._ With the same skill, purpose, and heat like the kind from last night. It tore the previous sense of calm to shreds. This felt like a continuation of what had started last night and which one performed in bed.

Hands travelled down to the curve of Harry’s ass when he realized they were not even outside anymore. _Ah, that_ _’_ _s why it’s so warm_. A dark bedroom came into sight along with a bed in which the Dark Lord pressed Harry into its pillows, chasing after his mouth and refusing to let go. Much like an excited cat sinking its teeth into a mouse. The viciousness of both acts was paralyzing.

But the last thing on Harry’s mind was to refuse it.

He was a toy for this man’s pleasure, a willing toy. One that opened his legs to straddle Lord Voldemort and allow the hands clutching his hips to settle them into a rhythm. It was too late for any regrets after having tasted this temptation, of craving to be touched by _him_ and _him_ only.

But most of all, he was wanted in return.

Tom’s movements said it all; their sharpness, the desperation with which they clung, the possessive glint in his eyes, the way he forced Harry to meet his gaze using his presence alone. Perhaps this was enough for _them,_ the fucking. Yet in truth it was far more than that _. A million times more_.

Hours later, Harry’s naked back was resting against Voldemort’s bare chest as the man’s fingers slid in and out Harry’s already moist hole. The whimpers that escaped his mouth were the only sounds in the room… for the moment, anyway. The Dark Lord’s lips travelled up and down his neck while Harry’s thoughts could be summarised in a single sentence. _I love you so fiercely it makes my heart hurt._ Voldemort needn't know the specifics. Needless to say, scarcely anything proved unknown to his brilliance.

“I have a request.”

“Umm-huh, um... Yeah?” His pleasurable mewls evoked a chuckle from the other man along with a far more alert movement of his hand.

“A request for our cause and to bring peace,” the Dark Lord elaborated, punctuating each word with a thrust of three fingers now closely bordering on four. “A meeting with your former friends to officially put an end to this war. Just as a mere formality and the chance for them to see their lost savior. Harry, Harry… will my request be granted? You don’t have to but I would enjoy it very much if you would.”

It was manipulation in its sweetest form, one accompanied by a blinding orgasm and those skilful fingers still buried deep inside his backside. Harry was aware of the clever play at work yet he still fell victim. He allowed himself to walk a certain path and assume a certain role. A role he knew by heart now and that had already been previously discussed. It was his life’s role now.

“Ye-yes. Yes.”

Voldemort hummed against Harry’s ear, as pleased and victorious as ever. A peaceful silence settled, promising rest until a nail scratched at Harry’s inner walls.

“No more,” Harry whined, half-heartedly attempting to twist away from those impossibly strong arms.

“One more.”

When lips sought lips, Harry agreed. “One more,” he echoed, or thought he did.

 

*** * ***

 

The meeting room was more of a throne room than anything else. Ah, but they should not call it so, not officially. It wouldn’t settle well for the people. But it must’ve been known. One only need to consider the size of the grand entrance with their eyes to confirm it.

Yes, grand and long and at least fifty metres before the platform on which one sole chair awaited. The place was enormous. The object on the platform which demanded one’s undivided attention was not a throne made of gold and precious gems, but one made of black wood. Harry felt small compared to it, dwarfed by the ornate seat that seemed to swallow his body whole. Clearly it was meant for another.

 _For Lord Voldemort_.

Harry struggled to keep the blush off his face at the memory of Voldemort and what transpired between them earlier that day. They had fucked once again that morning, just as enthusiastically as last night. _So what?_ Rationally mocked. Millions of people fucked, they weren’t anything special.

But they were, though. Their identities dictated so.

Harry had let Lord Voldemort fuck him, had wanted it so badly and enjoyed it just as strongly. Wanted _him_. Only _him_. Wanted the monster who resembled a monster no more — not with his eyes, not with his touch.

 _Don_ _’_ _t let yourself be distracted!_

At his own rebuke, Harry stood straighter and snuck a glance down the few stairs leading to the throne and saw the back of Barty’s head. The professor who hadn’t really been a professor. The impostor who now guarded Harry in silence at the order of his lord. It was curious, Harry thought, for he would have expected Lucius’ presence. It was a political gathering, after all. Barty and his unconcealed malice appeared entirely out of place at this type of meeting devoid of explicit violence. But oh, did he intimidate especially _because of it._ And just like any guard dog, he tilted his head moments before the doors were pushed open and the visitors arrived. They both tried to feign bravery by their walk alone. Though on Harry’s end it was for entirely different reasons.

While Harry watched Hermione and Kingsley head his way, his consciousness offered a metaphorical image of a sequence of events. Of one thief faking an honest bargain with an even bigger, more shameless thief. At that thought, Harry’s disposition had immensely improved until a subtle horror gripped him. There was no need to feel guilty for not harbouring any guilt. At the end of the day a farce was a farce and nothing more, even the most noble ones.

It seemed to take forever for the pair to reach his side of the room, all the while seeking Harry’s gaze with their own. It was awkward, accusing, and so much more. But Harry delivered his own reply by way of a neutral expression. He did not care what it would look like, not when people who were once so dear to him did not waste breath in passing judgment on him now. And so keen they were to do so. It was unfair.

“That’s enough,” warned Barty when they reached a meter before the foot of the stairs, shattering the tension… or grooming it into growing.

Silence fell as all present waited for Harry to begin this dreadful conversation. To play his part for everyone’s sake. _They should all be thankful_ , he thought bitterly.

“Kingsley, Hermione, thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for receiving us,” Kingsley echoed with well-learned ease and clasped his hands behind his back.

He did not mention that it was a cold receiving. After all, this was not a meeting but a display of power and authority. They did not sit around a table but instead stood on their feet, forced to look up at the substitute ruler above them. For now. And it was all according to the Dark Lord’s scheme.

There was unmasked resentment in Hermione’s eyes even before Harry opened his mouth to further their discussion. “I gather you’re here to sign the settlement so let’s begin. The sooner we begin, the better.”

There was quiet… until —

“There are some aspects we don’t agree on,” Kingsley noted with a small forceful smile.

The darker side of Harry could not help but mentally snicker. _Oh, what a surprise._ “And which parts are the ones in need of revision from your point of view?”

“The parts where muggleborn children are taken from their parents, where elections are abolished, and the many other tiny but vicious clauses in that text which have been redacted by a tyrant intent on depriving us of our rights and liberties.”

None had the paper in question before them yet Hermione’s harsh tone offered no doubt that she had the whole thing memorized right down to the punctuation. Yet the strangest aspect of this interaction was another. Namely, his discussion parter — or better said, _partners_. Harry was undergoing a fight on two separate fronts that ought to have been only one. Kingsley seemed prepared to settle for painful concessions, whereas Hermione… not so much. The personal resentment in her gaze was an impediment for any clear and rational judgement. He’d done her wrong for all the right reasons but the betrayal lingered. So the sight of Harry must be difficult to stomach, least of all feel anything but hatred for.

“Completely expected, but I’m sure you’ve read the clarifications on each piece of legislation. Separation will be beneficial for magical children in the long-run. They’ll be part of our community from the very beginning of their lives and will therefore never feel the alienation of being considered a stranger. Most important of all, there would be no abuse at home because of their freakishness—”

“Not everyone shares your unfortunate circumstances, Harry,” Hermione coldly cut in. “Most families love their special children.”

The temperature in the room dropped, or perhaps the heat in Harry’s heart did. _Oh_. He leaned back on Voldemort’s throne, distantly taking in the familiar scent. A calming one that evoked memories both pleasant and distressing. In contrast to the Dursley family, Voldemort was both. In his lap, Harry’s fingers fiddled with the material of his pants. “True,” he admitted. “But the chance that it isn’t exist. Are you willing to place bets on someone’s happiness in this case? Not to mention the repercussions that our world will be discovered? The safest option is the best for these children.”

“Orphans, you mean.” A low blow on Hermione’s part.

“Happy and educated orphans.”

“All potential happy and educated orphans have an unhappy childhood.” Her eyes alone swam with accusations and Barty actually let out a brief cackle following their exchange.

“Pity,” uttered Harry without pity. “Because the living conditions for future magical children are non-negotiable.”

Kingsley cleared his throat. “And what is negotiable, if I may ask?”

Harry found it much easier to meet his dark eyes. It was safer territory, at least. “The part regarding the Light side’s legal representation in the Wizengamot. Forty percent of the seats is a generous offer, all things considered. I would take it, if I were you. The number will not go any higher, as per the Dark Lord’s wishes.”

“Harry,” Hermione interrupted again, this time far more composed than she had been moments before. “Does his obsession give you a sense of power?”

And here it went, what stood on the tip of everyone’s tongues. _The sole question_.

The shame of the truth turned him on the defensive.

“The Order wastes too much time thinking about me and Voldemort. With what little of you there are left, one would think you’d have other priorities,” he said harshly.

“You didn’t give me an answer.”

“And I won't. I’m not here to discuss him and me, I'm here for a legal settlement.”

Hermione returned his glare. “I don’t see a dividing line.”

 _She was making this so difficult! Couldn_ _’_ _t she understand the situation?_

“I don’t really care about what you think, okay? Hate me all you want, but I’m done justifying myself to deaf ears. We aren’t discussing our friendship here, we’re talking terms of cooperation for a higher purpose,” Harry raved in a clear attempt to make her _see_. “The Dark Lord could have you all killed, yet he offers peace, whatever the terms. Don’t be stupid enough to trample over his gift. For your own sakes, not mine.”

Hermione took the words in like a physical shock. Her eyes went round and wide as her lips parted for unsaid retorts that were sure to sign her death warrant. Perhaps by Barty’s hand. Barty, who now stood unusually quiet.

Yet in the end Hermione remained calm, perhaps searching for her previous fire.

“I agree.”

Harry nodded his head at Kingsley’s intervention. “Perfect.”

Then the air changed and Harry’s heart did a funny thing. Or was it his soul? If this was the case… then _he_ was here.

Their eyes met from across the room. The man discreetly shook his head and Harry nodded his before the other began his approach.

Lord Voldemort’s appearance had the effect of defeating silence with only his sure steps as noise. Meanwhile all four occupants of the room faithfully followed his slow arrival. He did nothing without purpose, even this wordless arrival.

Yes, the Dark Lord had a way of using silences. He’d let you say what you had to say then wait. Not out of any sense of mercy or respect but to offer you seemingly interminable moments to regret whatever left your mouth and bask in the self-induced terror you would get by simply staring at his impassible expression, wondering what the Dark Lord would do to you. What his punishment would imply.

Hermione and Kingsley looked at Voldemort with beady eyes filled with terror. And Harry… he supposed he should call it _anticipation_ by now, though by no means did it exclude fright.

“Do go on,” the man called as he climbed the platform to his throne on which Harry sat, only stopping at his side to rest familiar fingers on him. But the fatherly hand on Harry’s shoulder was anything but paternal. It made him sit straighter, tense as a wire. Just as tense at their two guests; Hermione with revulsion in her stare and Kingsley with unease.

It soon became clear the intimidation tactic had served it purpose for Voldemort was the first one to speak and dive straight into the core of their unfortunate predicament.

“Miss Granger… your stance bewilders. Do not misunderstand, it amazes me that such a violence-opposed individual such as yourself is stomping all over my offers for peace. Or are you in favour of open conflict after all?”

Harry saw her flinch underneath the Dark Lord’s gaze. He knew better than anyone what those grey eyes were capable of.

“Of course not,” she breathed in soft defiance. “But my unwillingness to accept violence does not translate into willingness to accept an oppressive peace that is not peace at all.”

“I disagree — peace is peace. So a question for you, then: Have you ever spared a thought as to why such intelligent beings as us humans, magic or not, in spite of our progress and laws, still crave the violence of fighting? I have a theory. You might say it’s only conflicting ideals, but it is not. This is what we enjoy saying in order to sound clever and intricate. But the true answer lies in our nature. _Predator and prey, eat or be eaten._ The one who is at the top and the one who is at the bottom. It is that simple.”

Voldemort circled the throne in a characteristically predatory fashion, hand falling atop Harry’s other shoulder as if it belonged there.

“My guests… I shall teach people a lesson about themselves that they won’t forget even in death. Filthy liars who preach for peace and safety until their mouths bleed. But now that they have their so-called peace on a silver platter, what do they do? Live their lives? Look after their children? Perfect their imperfect selves? Seek meaningful companionship? No, they engage in more violence. Look at them, even now as we speak, they trample all over my gift in favour of chaos. Why do they need chaos? For peace, they say. Ha! For another peace to bore them while they wage another war. But that will not be so while I live, for I will squeeze the life out of every distributive factor with my own two hands if I have to. Then we’ll talk about who is the real peaceful being.”

Everyone held their breaths, everyone besides Hermione. “Then the matter of peace is to be perceived subjectively. So I humbly disagree.”

“I know. I do hear you.” Voldemort’s answer was nearly polite. It’s tentative normalcy was frightening considering the being voicing it concealed an intellect capable of immeasurable cruelty. Yet, cruel or not, Voldemort was displaying patience.

Couldn’t the Light meet him in the middle? If for nothing else, then for their own survival? Resentment prodded at Harry’s restless consciousness, this time regarding himself and himself alone. Why bother caring about everyone else’s fate if he received only scorn in return? His mercy wouldn’t be returned anyway, not by Ron or Hermione. Nor by Kingsley or a single person who knew his name, his fate, and his choices. These people… they were responsible for their own actions. If they died… then they died. The reckless would go first and the rest would survive.

The serenity that followed these thoughts left Harry unnerved when at some point he realized the others were still talking.

“— No, Mister Kingsley, keep your children as I have no use for hostages. I require no more than your word to seal this agreement.”

In an absentminded gesture, Voldemort’s fingers tapped against Harry’s shoulders and three pairs of eyes traced the action. In the following silence, Harry heard the words that went unspoken.

_I have no use for hostages because, whilst I live, every being in Britain is my hostage._

And all who were present heard the message plain and true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, you wonderful people:) Also, wish me luck with my university thesis😉
> 
> on tumblr @lordmarvoloriddle


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Millions and millions of interminable thanks to the most wonderful beta that exists in this entire world (~˘▾˘)~ Vanillaghost. Thank you for your patience and most of all, for your time 💕💕💕

 

“Thank you for this.”

The _this_ in question was merely a walk. Well, not _only_ a walk. Not that any walk was common in the company of the Dark Lord. But it was a walk in the muggle parts of London and the anonymity of passing looks proved divine following the tension-charged meeting they just had. If people gazed at them it was out of fleeting interest, for themselves as individuals or as a pair. Considering the handsome man alongside him, Harry completely understood the attention.

“You do know I am not inclined to refuse most of your wishes.”

 _Except the ones that truly count._ “I know,” Harry said because he didn’t know what else to say. At the very least, he was thankful this tricky exchange took place without visual contact so Voldemort had no chance of witnessing the embarrassing redness painting his cheeks. Because, in truth, and in spite of all intimacy and everything else that had transpired between them, Harry was still on his toes around the man.

At some indefinite point in their passing discussion, the pair abandoned the strange warmth provided by small talk and returned to familiar territory. _War_ _,_ _war_ _,_ _war_ _._ _E_ _nemies_ _,_ _enemies_ _,_ _enemies._ Their chat focused on what remained of the Order and their attempts to seize any means of control, even of the economic kind. It was utterly surreal, the natural contradiction between the subject and the place where the subject was being dissected.

“Precious horcrux, do consider.” When had that word ceased to sound like an insult to Harry’s ears? And since when had he begun to welcome it? “There are no noble rebels willing to sacrifice themselves for the greater good out of some selfless ideals. Skim through history, even the muggle one. They all hungered for power, every peasant and every king. The only difference between them was that one craved far more than he already had while the other would have killed for just a taste of it. With that in mind, are they rebels or power hungry beasts? One and the same, I’d say.”

“You just called yourself a beast,” noted Harry as they passed another green light, shoulder to shoulder to avoid one hurried muggle after another. It was past four in the afternoon and everyone was dragging themselves to familiar settings. Family, friends, happiness.

“Intelligent of you to notice.”

Harry huffed in annoyance but not without amusement. They bantered back and forth, delaying the inevitable return to the mansion. This way Harry could begin to detach from the consequences of his actions. Did he regret his assumed position from hours before? No. Did it nag at what was left of his morals? Yes. The _yes_ in his head sounded suspiciously like Hermione’s voice and Harry’s resolve only strengthened in response. No matter what, he was doing the right thing in the direst of conditions. He knew he was. Most certainly.

Harry was caught up in his own thoughts, in Voldemort’s presence and their exchanged words. So caught up, in fact, that he didn’t see it coming. Not until a burly hand grabbed at his wrist and _yank_ _ed_ him back so that he almost fell to the sidewalk. But the real shock was how familiar the strong body pressed on top of his was, crushing Harry to the floor —

_Don_ _’_ _t enjoy being pinned down like this?_

Bile rose dangerously in the back of his throat. Harry turned to pull his trembling hand back and his breath left him at the sight that met his eyes.

It was funny how life really hit you in the face right when you least expected it.

“Boy! Where in the world have you been?!” Vernon Dursley demanded as his blunt nails bit into the skin of Harry’s arm.

This was really happening. It wasn’t a nightmare. Couldn’t be one, not in broad daylight.

Harry still shook like a leaf. The tremor had spread from his hand to the rest of his body. “I… Uncle Vernon?”

_This was really happening._

“Come on, move now! Get your ass home. That freaky, greasy man drove us crazy—!” Vernon babbled as he attempted to pull Harry toward him. In the middle of the street, all while people watched… while _Voldemort_ watched. Hot shame washed down Harry’s neck. The Dark Lord wasn’t supposed to see this pathetic sight. Harry wanted to melt into the ground.

Then fingers intertwined with his own, familiar fingers. _Safety, warmth, calm_. The only touch Harry’s body seemed to welcome, the only one that was _okay_. He swallowed the painful lump in his throat. Harry was going to be okay. He yanked the hand trapped by his uncle so abruptly he collided with Voldemort’s chest. The feeling of a familiar touch did not retreat. _Harry was going to be okay._

“You are going through a mild panic attack,” Voldemort whispered for his ears only. “Breathe. I am here, so breathe easy. Yes, just like that. Good boy.”

 _Yes, breathe._ Harry squeezed the hand right back, set on communicating his understanding as best he could.

Moments later, the Dark Lord let go and strode straight to uncle Vernon and his angry, red face. The muggle stumbled back, peering up at Voldemort’s towering figure with squinting eyes that were no less demanding.

A few passersby had stopped in their journey to watch the cheap spectacle and Harry wondered… Would the Dark Lord kill uncle Vernon right here in the open? Did Harry want him to?

“Lay one hand on what is mine again and I will make you eat that hand.”

It wasn’t said as a threat. It was a statement.

“Look…” Harry sighed, finding his voice at last and trying not to make a scene, though it was far too late for that now. “Let’s just go our separate ways. Why bother—”

“ _Why?_ ” Venon asked, growing more crimson-faced with each passing second. “BECAUSE I SAID SO, YOU DAMN FREAK!”

The next thing Harry knew, his uncle was sprawled on the pavement, clutching the left side of his face with blood smeared between his fingers. The magical prodigy that was Lord Voldemort had… had _punched_ Vernon Dursley! Harry gasped, unsure how to react, what to do, what to say… Muggles were staring while some were fishing for their phones. Vernon cursed and attempted to get up when the Dark Lord tilted his head like a predator. He began to stalk forward but they could not afford to murder someone in broad daylight, not in front of so many people… absolutely not!

A car honked, someone cursed, and many gazes turned away at the distraction. Harry wasted no time in grabbing Voldemort’s hand and Disapparating them, head surprisingly void of a destination.

It was _cold_. Then —

“Harry.”  

Nothing more than this one word was said at first. Stranded in a dimly lit alley, the older man crowded Harry’s space and it felt like a form of protection. Harry’s fingers twisted in Voldemort’s coat, pulling him close in an embrace and — _there._ Much better. No explanation was demanded for this childish display. There was only silence as the Dark Lord periodically smoothed his palms down Harry’s back like a concerned parent would to their child. Harry hugged him back more tightly.

He didn’t know who or what started it but at some indefinite point, Harry found himself pressed against a solid, cold surface. But Voldemort’s palms on his cheeks were warm and his eyes alone made Harry stand very still. The height and broad shoulders which accompanied said eyes only further commanded stillness. The Dark Lord was powerful and warm and he looked at Harry and Harry just knew and wished for him all the same. Pushing up on his toes, Harry kissed the man.

He should be used to it by now, to the way Voldemort would take charge of his mouth and — _everything_ , really. It was more than a joining of lips. Voldemort kissed like kissing was no more than a viciously long prelude to fucking. With a slick tongue and sharp teeth, skilled fingers held Harry’s jaw open as if forcing him to accept a bitter medicine though he was forcing nothing because Harry was all too willing. Harry gasped and mewled and shuddered in his need to be closer to the other man who was _everything_ to him now.

"You’re such a needy child," Voldemort rasped against Harry’s jaw with mirth. “ _My_ child, my spoiled little child begging to be fucked, aren’t you? You are.”

Harry didn’t respond, couldn’t bring himself to do little else besides spread his legs. Or perhaps the Dark Lord pushed them apart. Either way, it mattered little as a knee expertly pressed between them while scraping teeth traveled up and down Harry’s neck. And Harry… Harry did feel like a small child begging to be fucked. Though it was a perverse thought, he _was_ small compared to the towering Lord Voldemort… and he loved and relished in every second of it. As soon as he ground himself against the man’s knee, the Dark Lord smiled against Harry’s neck.

“ _Good boy_.” The praise sent shivers through Harry’s body more than any freezing water could. On second thought, maybe it was a fever instead of a chill? “Such a good boy,” Voldemort mouthed against his lips. “ _Harry, my_ _Harry_.”

By the time Harry grabbed a hold of Voldemort’s cock through the material of his trousers, they were both a mess for one another. And that was okay. It was dirty and rushed and exhausting, the Dark Lord’s hands on his hips the only thing standing between Harry and his collapse, but it was okay.

But what proved to be far from that were Voldemort’s words whispered into his ear, tone as sweet as honey.

“I am going to slaughter your uncle tonight. How do you feel about watching?”

Harry’s knees did buckle after that.

 

*** * ***

 

The structure of reality had altered its shape. Hermione hated it… and it seemed Draco did too. A stone flew from the blond’s fingers, ungracefully colliding with blurry waters after a stubborn and forceful shove. It buried itself in greenish waters that were muddy but not frozen in spite of the cold. Was this a good thing or a bad thing?

Hermione exhaled her irrelevant worries just as a faint _‘pop’_ echoed from behind them. _So soon._ Draco stilled despite expecting their upcoming guest. Perhaps he thought they had more time to prepare like Hermione had.

“Well, hello there Miss Granger. Mister Malfoy.” There was unmasked surprise at the sight of the boy. ”Am I late by any chance?”

“No. Early.”

Slughorn hummed, gazing from one to the other before turning to the very clearing in which they now stood. Barren trees, uneven logs crowding the ground, nothing truly special or distinctive. A place just like any other.

“My children… I don’t mean to presume the purpose of this unrelenting invitation but you do know that treason is a highly punishable offence, don’t you?” the old professor sighed, walking to a nearby fallen tree on which he sat as if his bones weighed as much as the world.

“We only want to talk.”

Draco’s words were received with a smile. “And doesn’t treason always start with words?”

“We won’t tell if you won’t,” Hermione reasoned, hoping to appeal to their audience of one.

“Miss Granger, why tempt fate?” Slughorn was refusing to listen so soon, before the arguments had even begun. “In spite of everything, he has shown kindness to his opponents, to us. No large executions, no violence, only rules and relative freedom. Why do you seek to stir his buried wrath by asking for my presence in surely unsaid and dangerous matters that may lead to a certain death? I do believe none of us forgot the burning house and the screaming of mostly innocent people.”

“Professor,” Draco interrupted, hands in the pockets of his trousers. “Are we supposed to trust his self-restraint with our lives? I don’t. My family is in danger with each breath he takes.” He inhaled with a shudder, perhaps banishing unwanted memories. “Yesterday the Dark Lord gave my father a mission and said failure would be both amusing and expected. He smirked in my father’s face… like he wants him to disappoint.” He furrowed his brow. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

The old man stood and dusted off his trousers. “You’re both young and painfully unaware of how priceless your lives are.” Pale eyes turned sad. “Don’t waste them on ideals in a war with an immortal being. You’ll lose.”

Hermione understood, really she did. But she could not accept it. Injustice was injustice, nothing more and nothing less. “A life in chains is no life at all, professor. And we believe everyone can be killed, even a seemingly immortal being.” Hermione drew near him, twigs creaking beneath her foot. “You’re close to You-Know-Who, as close as it gets. We just want some insight, anything you can share about him… about his horcruxes or what else... Please.”

Slughorn drew a shaking breath, then his wand. A faint wind blew, signalling the wrongness that met their eyes. They may hold their wands in return but the air tasted wrong and steps were heard while no one moved. _And Slughorn looked so sad._

“You’ve betrayed us,” hissed Draco and went to Hermione’s side, gaze sizing up their surroundings almost feverishly as his hand sought hers.

“No, no, no, young Malfoy. The only real traitor is none other than you. You stupid, _stupid_ boy.”

Hermione did not recognise the speaker that had come from behind them, but she did recognise his companion. Antonin Dolohov. She squeezed Draco’s fingers in hopes of Apparating them, yet wards turned such an action futile. Draco’s hands began to shake. It appeared he knew the thinner man of the two, _and he was terrified._

“What’s the matter now? Cat got your clever tongue? It’s a shame daddy isn’t here to look after you.”

Three on two. The chances weren’t favorable to begin with but the choice was that there was no choice at all.

Hermione and Draco charged. First herself, then him. Shamefully, the fight did not last long. Experience said its word, just as the viciousness of the two attacks, the third mainly keeping them in check.

Yes, the old professor watched as Dolohov’s burly hand wrapped around Hermione’s neck and held it more than anything else. While mere feet away, Draco was faintly bleeding from his left side as the unknown man’s wand tapped against his forehead in a mocking manner, as if keeping a rhythm. He appeared to be enjoying himself.

“Speak, speak, speak. Justify yourself, hurry up.”

Hermione thrashed in Dolohov’s hold, sensing the inevitable. A cat toying with a mouse lead only to one thing… and Draco knew it too. He spat in the Death Eater’s face without a care for the punishment that would follow.

“If someone you love is ever placed at the end of his wand, you’ll understand. You’ll—”

The next few minutes were a blur of images and sounds. Slughorn had turned his back on the scene as the furious man all but dragged Draco to the river bank before proceeding to hold his head underwater. Limbs twitched and Hermione struggled to free herself, to be of any help at all. But it was futile. The Death Eater was muttering something as Draco’s movements turned to spasms. Then her own captor spoke, shouting, “Enough, Barty! Stop banging on opened doors and finish him off already.”

So Barty did, slowly, dragging as much pleasure from the act as he could. By the end of it Draco floated into the lake and Hermione had gone quiet long before a smiling Barty turned to her, splashing icy cold water from his fingers. “Now… what should we do with you, sneaky mudblood that you are?”

 

*** * ***

 

If Harry were to be honest, the sight before his eyes was enchanting. The pretty forest clad in white only consisted of a few trees here and there; scarce, but precious. It stirred memories of freezing alive but those memories were distant now… in a way. Or perhaps the focus of such an image was what made the difference in its perception. Perhaps _that_ part of Harry hadn’t healed yet… maybe it never would, not in a million years. Snow crunched beneath his boots as Voldemort allowed him to take the lead.

Then the scenery turned from magnificent to horrific.

What was at first pretty was tarnished as ten figures draped in black emerged and stole Harry’s attention. A few familiar faces stared at him as Harry stared back, eyes traveling across the line in which they all waited… But what really stole his breath away were the three figures hovering inches above the ground as if suspended by an invisible thread.

Dudley, Petunia… and Vernon.

It seemed the promise had turned into truth. Not that there had been any doubt.

“Burn them? Freeze them? Torture them?” the Dark Lord whispered in Harry’s ear, his words mocking, _daring_. “What does your little heart desire?”

Indeed, _what?_ The three were conscious, or at least in a state resembling consciousness. Their eyes gazed down at Harry, pupils so dilated their eyes seemed black from this distance. Inky eyes full of fear and judgment, all directed at him. Harry may not be the one behind their detainment yet he was the reason _for_ it. Not Lord Voldemort, but _him_. Harry Potter. There was a strange sort of satisfaction in the fact.

Lucius Malfoy observed Harry. He, too, awaited a decision. But only out of obligation, that is. Considering that train of thought… Why were there so many people in the audience? And for merely three muggles? The show could not be that entertaining for an audience so well-versed in the arts of cruelty.

Harry wetted his frozen lips. “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “What do you suggest?” Here he was, offering explicit advice for a vicious murder. A murder he knew was coming. Because no matter what he said or did in protest, Voldemort would kill the Dursleys. _I want to tell myself this_ , Harry thought. _To push away the responsibility and the blame that will follow with the blood and nightmares_ _…_ _I want to be proud of myself for once, just for a small while_ _…_ _but not while comforted by lies_. _I must always look myself in the face._

With this promise to himself, Harry watched what was left of his family. Three broken people sure to die. Three terrible people who had made a small child swallow his tears night after night and refused to give ice when the boy burned his palms while cooking food he never got to eat.

Perhaps they deserved this fate after all.

“I changed my mind,” Harry announced though Voldemort had only stood in silence, as if sensing this shift in him. “Make them burn. Like those before.”

Warmth pressed against Harry’s back. “Do it yourself.”

So Harry did. One, two, three steps. A shaking exhale, now with a wand in his fingers. One spell. All it would take was a single —

_Pop._

_Thud._

Harry turned, the death sentence still on his lips, as Lucius made a sound Harry never thought possible.

Draco’s corpse lay on the ground like crumpled trash. With purple skin, eyes wide and unseeing, and his body so very _wet_. The three other newcomers stood, two of them proud and one in turmoil. In Dolohov’s burly arms, Hermione thrashed _._ Not constantly, but from time to time. As if by force of habit. _And Lucius was still making that throaty sound,_ as if choking on thin air.

Harry supposed losing your only child would hurt just as much as dying.

“The costs for my protection,” Voldemort declared, and advanced on the small group, passing Harry, inching to where the older Malfoy knelt over his son’s corpse. He was utterly terrifying, a predator in all his might. “Safety is never free, just as treason is always punishable… whoever the traitor may be. I once told you this, Lucius. It is a shame you failed in teaching your boy such a precious lesson.” His grey eyes then found Harry’s. “Go on now, my Harry. We wasted enough time already.”

“Harry! Don’t do this — Harry! _Harry_!” Hermione’s shouts began as soon as Harry reached the Dursleys. She understood all too well what was about to happen. As did his relatives. Tears streamed down their icy cheeks, begging silently just as Harry used to do before. The Death Eaters waited in silence, some watching while others stood apart from the scene. Lucius continued to cry while Hermione screamed, and Harry wanted everything to be over. If only everyone had done the rational thing, then none of this would have ever happened. Why couldn’t they have just listened?

 _I must always look myself in the face_ , Harry reminded himself. Yes, he would choose to do nothing else from now on. No more lies.

Harry raised his wand. “ _Incendio_ _,_ ” he muttered, his voice curiously calm.

Now three more people had joined the choir of shouts. Louder, louder, louder they grew until the sound reached high into the sky. It was a strange feeling to watch this carnage. Harry had not felt such a mixture of justice and regret in a long time. Perhaps never. Yet he did not look away from his own doing. The heat from their burning flesh washed over his skin as their limbs turned brittle and finally crumbled into ash.

Yes, it was just as people said. Nothing burned quite like the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on tumblr @lordmarvoloriddle


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Millions and millions of interminable thanks to the most wonderful beta that exists in this entire world (~˘▾˘)~ Vanillaghost. Thank you for your patience and most of all, for your time 💕💕💕

 

 

Harry dreamt. He dreamt of patterns, silly images with little meaning, and of people made of flesh and blood. He dreamt of himself stepping into fire and a giant Voldemort with a silver cage dangling from his arm, a golden key clutched in the other. Harry could not glimpse into the tiny prison, wasn’t even sure he wanted to… until two black doors dotted his vision. The images repeated themselves until it seemed like someone was trying to forge the thoughts into his unwilling brain.

They were dreams better than most, one could argue.

But when he awoke, Harry tasted ash in his mouth. The taste turned his stomach and he jumped upright, unsure if he should flee to the bathroom before making a mess of his bedsheets. It appeared there was no need, however, as a calm eventually settled in as he took one deep breath after another. The nausea disappeared and everything settled into place. “Likho?” he called softly into the morning light, hands patting the sheets. No answer came, no noise, no cat near him. The cat was with Voldemort then. Perhaps in his own room or another corner of the giant mansion. Weeks after and Harry had yet to grow used to Leningrad… Sankt-Petersburg… Petrograd. Not that he had seen much of the city outside the gates. There was never a good moment for exploration. Something always happened or got in the way for the opportunity.

After getting ready for the day, Harry set out to find the Dark Lord, following the bitter taste of magic swimming in the air. The study, it appeared. Predictable. Harry did not bother knocking. “You’re not very talkative today,” he commented as he laid himself on the chair opposite Voldemort while the man stared at him. Likho was still nowhere to be seen. Perhaps _she_ had gone exploring, Harry thought with bitter amusement.

The expression on the handsome face that peered at him could only be described as irritated. And if his mood was not apparent enough, the way the Dark Lord threw his pen on the writing desk certainly made it clear. Harry was on his way to prompting some elaboration yet it appeared there was no need.

“I’ve spent the last few days doing my own _tedious_ paperwork while Lucius mourns,” Tom sneered. “But, by all means, these responsibilities will soon be passed onto another as I expect Lucius will continue to plunge himself into misery — and deathly deeds as well, no doubt. You, on the other hand, are atrociously gleeful given the circumstances.”

 _Considering the dream he just had,_ _Harry certainly wasn’t that gleeful._ Making himself more comfortable on the chair, Harry crossed his legs underneath him. “Perhaps. I just… realized it may be strange, considering what I did. What I provoked... but I can’t help it. I’m sort of content with the way things are going. It’s been peaceful for a short time. Things have come to the best possible outcome. Plain and simple.”

The Dark Lord looked at him as one would an unknown and possibly menacing species. Somewhat guarded in the face of possible danger. “Just to be clear, Harry,” the man ventured. “You executed three individuals in an excruciating manner, saw the corpse of a schoolmate and the capture of the mudblood… and yet you claim contentment.” At these last words, his eyes drifted to Harry’s forehead with burning intensity. What was he hoping to glimpse? Merely the scar he had left behind or the piece of his own soul it harbored? Perhaps he hoped to see the past Harry; the child who had trembled before his very gaze? Assumptions cast aside, Harry’s forehead and all it hid was mostly shadowed by his black locks — locks that Voldemort now glared at in frustration.

“And _you_ allowed the girl to live, in spite of everything,” Harry said. “Though certainly not out of mercy. But in hopes that the Order would feel somewhat indebted... or _she_ would feel so. Yet I highly doubt any of them would ever trust you. Or vice versa. But that’s a story for another time.” Harry smiled sadly and his smile was returned, but it was one with just the slightest trace of viciousness. “What I’m trying to say is that I refuse to lament about choices that were my own because what’s done is done. The road only moves forward so what other choice do I have but to follow its course?”

When Voldemort offered his hand in an open invitation, Harry wasted no time in interlocking their fingers. The sight of their joined hands held a strange kind of charm. There was such tenderness in the way the man raised them and pressed a kiss above Harry’s own, tickling the knuckles with his lips.

“A road without end… but how far will you go?” The cold mockery in Voldemort’s voice was a sharp contrast to the burning in his grey eyes.

“Guess we’ll see,” Harry countered, fearful of nothing else besides the clenching of his own heart.

And they did see… in a way.

 

*** * ***

 

“Tea?”

Hermione met Slughorn's question with one of her own. “The Weasleys?”

The kettle was placed back on the stove at her indirect refusal. With his coat flung carelessly on the back of one chair, the Potions master appeared at home in the Burrow’s kitchen. The Burrow’s _deserted_ kitchen, most peculiarly.

Still ghosting in the doorway, Hermione approached with her wand tucked in her sleeve. Ready to strike if the need should arise. Which was unlikely, considering the happenings of the last few days. She was still breathing, still somehow free… and still awaiting punishment. Was Slughorn going to be the one to deliver it? Kind eyes found hers… the same eyes that had watched Draco drown. Yet, nonetheless, they were kind.

So, no. The reason for his visit must be another.

“The Weasleys?” Hermione insisted with impatience.

“All in the back garden… busy with their gnomes and other trinkets, I presume. They were polite enough to offer us a little privacy.” He had the decency to ooze guiltiness by stance alone. “Miss Granger, why don’t you sit down?” Hermione remained where she was. “Or not… whatever way you are more at ease. I understand my presence may make you far from comfortable.”

“You betrayed us and got our ally killed. Draco is dead because of you.” She sounded calmer than she felt.

Slughorn blinked then sighed before treading to the chair he had offered Hermione only a moment earlier. Such a deceitful image he painted sitting there. They had trusted him, had trusted his righteous nature and moral compass. Now Draco was dead because of their childish mistake. A tremble made Hermione’s body quiver. _Draco was dead and rotting in the ground. Bloated,_ her mind supplied; ever so keen to help.

“You know… I always found myself captivated by a certain muggle tale, not even a particularly lengthy one.” Well, Hermione hadn't expected _that_ turn in the conversation. “Perhaps you’ve read it too. The story is about a king’s invention of a peculiar public trial. One based solely on chance… But, in his vision, it was fair and just. The accused would be brought into an arena where two identical doors awaited so that the accused man may take his pick. But the trick was that behind one door awaited a lady who, in the king’s mind, would suit the fortunate or unfortunate man as a wife. Yet behind the other door, a famished tiger lurked. There was no way to hear behind the doors, so the accused would be left to his own luck of choosing marriage or death. However, the problem arose when the king learned that his own daughter had a brave and handsome lover who was of a much lower status than her. So the lad was forced to prove himself by a spontaneous marriage or a dreaded death. Clever girl that she was, the princess used her influence to learn where the lady and the tiger were to be positioned. But the lady used to be a rival for the affections of her lover... at least she had been in the princess’ troubled mind. But down in the arena, the young man trusted the princess so he gazed up at her while she discreetly indicated to the door on his right which he proceeded to open. What do you think happened next?”

“A sad outcome. She saved his life only to see him marry another,” answered Hermione with annoyance, attempting to disregard Slughorn’s wish to discuss tragic tales of lovesick girls.

The Potions master smiled. “Ah, not quite. The author does not specify the end, he simply portrayed the princess’ possible choices that each bore their own miserable outcome. Though, in my opinion, she chose the tiger, as she did not wish for him to be with another but her. You see… the story presents a moral dilemma. There are two difficult choices one has to make that mostly bear a regrettable outcome. So, in Harry’s case, which came out of the opened door – the lady, or the tiger?”

Ah, so this was his game. Hermione stared at Slughorn, forming a clever answer then discarding it for it was unsuitable, unfitting… but an answer had to be given. “Yes, there are two alternatives. One, Harry has turned from a powerless victim into a dangerous predator. Or two; he is stupid enough to think that what You-Know-Who truly offers peace. Either way, he is in the wrong while shouting to the world he’s right. To offer a parallel to your story, the tiger came out from behind both doors for Harry. But he’s not the sole meal for the beast.”

“There’s no negotiating with you, is there?”

“There is. But You-Know-Who doesn’t want to negotiate, not really. I thought you would know that better than anyone. Has he ever given you a choice besides an excruciating death?”

The old professor’s eyes lowered and remained there for a while. A bang echoed from outside followed by a curse and a ‘ _damn gnomes’,_ then silence. At least for a short while until Slughorn found his voice again.

“My girl, you are right. But let me ask you this… do you presume we’ll ever be rid of him? That he’ll ever let us out of his grasp? Because I do not. We will be ash in the wind, entire generations will pass, and he’ll still rule over us all like a malevolent God. Tom’s reign may not be just but no matter how much we wish to fight his injustice, he is too powerful… and grows even more so every day. It’s not selfish of us to wish for life instead of death… and there’s only life on his terms now, as well as kindness — such as the kindness he extended to you after what you've done.”

“You said it yourself, professor. It would be life on his terms. But that’s not what peace is… neither is that kind of kindness, which is not truly kindness but a clever way to twist horrible tales into fairytales. But perhaps Harry’s the clever one in this story,” Hermione uttered bitterly. “He’s guarding his back better than any of us are.”

But they were clever too. Slughorn may see only defeat when looking at her but Hermione saw something else lurking in the future. Freedom, and something that was already in motion, whether they knew it or not.

“Would you like another cup of tea?” Hermione offered as soon as she heard the commotion from outside come their way. If Slughorn was taken aback by her friendly response he hid it well. A true Slytherin indeed.

 

*** * ***

 

Leaning against the window, Harry only half listened to Voldemort and his minions. Barty was there, along with a woman who clutched her notes while scribbling down all the orders that left the Dark Lord’s mouth. No, Harry was staring out the windows of the throne room at the Ministry, frowning at the storm raging outside. It was the middle of the day but dark clouds accompanied by thunder and lightning made it seem like night. And the rain… it rattled the glass glued to his shoulder with all the ferocity with which it fell from the sky. Harry had a hard time not flinching at every sound or movement… he just couldn’t get used to it. But he tried.

Behind him, Voldemort’s voice invoked a lulling effect on his senses, even cold and commanding as it was when it reached his ears. Publicity. He was talking about publicity. Harry’s name was dropped once or twice in the conversation, perhaps three times. Then, publicity _and_ Harry; part of their deal, the usual business. There was work to be done, and soon.

After a while it grew quiet until the grand room basked in vicious lightning. Following another disrupting thunder, Harry finally became aware of the silence. He turned to see Voldemort staring intently at the throne before him. Intrigued, Harry inched his way over to join the Dark Lord in seeking the place he surveyed so intently. A laugh threatened to escape his lips  when he saw their little witch. Her eyes blinked lazily at them from where she was curled up on Lord Voldemort’s throne. She looked so tiny in the enormous chair. Minutes after minutes came and went and it appeared, for whatever reason, even the Dark Lord could not bring himself to unseat Likho.

“All things considered, you’re awfully good at the whole ruling of a country business,” Harry said, giving credit where credit was due. “Better than I would have thought.”

Voldemort hummed, still gazing at Likho.

“Is everything ok?” Harry asked.

“It will be.”

The hidden machinations of the Dark Lord's mind still petrified him at times. Yes, even now there were secrets. But how dangerous those secrets were, only time would tell. Harry could only hope it wouldn't be dangerous for _them_. Harry would be the first to admit that his relationship with the Dark Lord was defined by the manner in which it had taught them new things about their own selves. Things which they had not known before. It was a form of evolution, so to speak. But these silences spoke of involution more than anything else.

Harry banished these thoughts far away. Why trouble himself over nothing?

“I’ll be gone for a few days, out of the country,” Voldemort said, interrupting his own musings to finally face Harry. He leaned into him and watched when Harry leaned back. Then he smirked, satisfied. “You’ll stay here in Britain, take care of my empire. I trust you’ll know what to do.”

Thunder roared and Harry’s thrill at their close proximity was cut short. “I’m not coming with you?” he asked, feeling both incredibly stupid and incredibly entitled.

Voldemort only smiled at him, nose brushing against Harry’s chin, teasing. “I wish you were, but I need you here more. Besides, my business will make this a far from pleasant trip.”

“Business where?”

“Norway. The Dementors there are waiting for a meeting as we speak—”

“Wait, you’re going now?”

Grey eyes blinked at him. “Yes, Harry, now. Is there a problem?”

There wasn’t, was there? “No,” Harry said, defending his outburst. “It’s just sudden.” Harry’s arms wasted no time in encircling Voldemort’s middle, burying his face in the man’s neck and breathing in and out. “Don’t stay for too long.”

“I won’t,” promised the Dark Lord, pulling Harry closer to him in an instant so hands could roam up and down Harry’s back. It appeared Harry wasn’t the only one struggling with the impending departure. "Surely you must know nothing and no one could keep me away from you," Voldemort spoke as he leaned down and brushed the back of his hand against Harry’s chin.

“Yes, I know. Of course I know.”

They stood twisted in one another’s arms for what felt like hours. Voldemort kissed Harry’s forehead, his nose, his chin, the corners of his mouth, then finally his lips. Harry reciprocated quite happily, rejoicing in the deep groan that escaped Voldemort’s chest. The arms around him grew more secure, more tight, more possessive. But the man pulled away when the need began to burn too hotly, though not before grazing his lips against both Harry’s hands. “Barty will give you all the necessary details, but remember while governing in my place, this is a ‘ _do as I say,_ _not what I do’_ situation.”

“So no killings?”

Voldemort appeared nearly impressed. “Not too much, if you can help yourself.”

Harry had the strangest urge to embrace the man again. But he didn't, opting instead to gather Likho in his arms to help resist the temptation and have something to do with his hands. “Take care of yourself.”

“Of course,” Voldemort replied, and stared at Harry for a long while before facing away.

Call him silly but Harry never wanted the other man to leave. Yet Voldemort did.

 

*** * ***

 

It was only the third day and Harry grew more and more restless. By all accounts and logic, he should be tired and sleeping, taking his precious rest following all that work at the Ministry… but sleep simply refused to be his partner for the night. So he dived into more work at unreasonable hours along with a few unwilling participants.

“It requires your signature. Here, sir, at the bottom of the page.”

“I know how to read!” hissed Harry, glaring at the idiot Death Eater leaning over his — well, _Voldemort_ _’s_ _—_ desk and pointing at the magical creatures budget.

Barty did not bother to stifle his laugh. Honestly, either Harry was too uptight or he was surrounded by incompetents. Perhaps a bit of both. He made a note of raising this particular problem as soon as the Dark Lord returned… which was hopefully soon.

“Your schedule is rather horrible. Can you blame the poor man for his nervousness?”

They were kind words, but Barty was not kind. The other Dead Eater that had been with them had long since deserted the meeting chamber, presumably to his own room back at home. Here in this room only Harry and Barty remained.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Am I to presume Voldemort didn’t hold meetings at whatever hour he pleased?”

“Oh, he did. But not for signing papers.”

Yes, Harry could imagine other, far more gruesome reasons. Reasons that screamed in pain and anguish. But now, most peculiarly, he found himself behaving in a civil manner in his interactions with his former teacher. Perhaps the very reason behind this understanding. It went both ways, it appeared — with Barty venturing into memory lane as soon as they were left alone. Harry could see why Voldemort had instructed him specifically to keep Harry company. They had common ground in their fierce loyalty to the Dark Lord. Barty would do anything in his power to guard what was most precious to his master. Which, in this case, was Harry. Whatever order left Harry’s mouth, Barty made it happen. The arrangement worked.

“Would you have been happier to accompany our Lord on his journey?”

The question came out of nowhere and Harry watched the other pull himself a chair from somewhere close to his left. It screeched against the floor in a painful manner but Barty did not seem to mind.

“The Dark Lord needed someone to make sure things ran smoothly in his absence, hence the reason for my presence here.” He hadn’t really answered the question, Harry realized. “Hmm, but he’ll be back soon. The Dementors in the north are no match for our Lord’s will. And if they raise any resistance, well… the Dark Lord’s valour subjugates everything in its way. Puts him in good spirits too.”

“Conquering certainly may prove a thrilling experience,” Harry acknowledged, tapping his fingers against the long dining table which no longer served dining purposes.

“For the conqueror,” amended Barty with mirth. “Not for the conquered.”

“Yes. But in this world, who really cares about how the conquered feels?”

“The conquered, I’d imagine.” A toothy grin. “My, my, my, young Harry Potter. The day has come when you’re playing the Devil’s advocate with the Devil’s minions. Who would have thought?”

_Yes, who would have thought._

Perhaps only the Dark Lord.

“Life is full of surprises.” A knock interrupted their exchange and Harry sighed. “Yes, come in.”

The idiot from earlier stood in the doorway with Snape behind him. Harry’s relaxed demeanour vanished at once. Back straightening, he narrowed his eyes in displeasure, perhaps even malice. The fingers ceased their dance. Barty took notice of everything but otherwise remained quiet, observing the greasy-haired man in tense silence. Harry was already annoyed. Snape, of all people, was here and the rest of Harry’s night was ruined. “What do you want?”

“Potter. It seems the Dark Lord failed to teach you some much-needed manners.”

This certainly held Barty’s attention for he pushed back his chair and that damned sound echoed again in the vast space of the chamber. “Careful, Severus. You’d do well to keep your tongue in check.” Of course the slander of Voldemort’s name would not be tolerated in Barty’s presence. And neither would Harry’s, it appeared. This was certainly an interesting development

“What do you want,” insisted Harry. “Showing up here uninvited… the Dark Lord is busy.”

Like an oversized bat, his former Potions teacher advanced, looking just as displeased as Harry in the face of this meeting. “A word,” he drawled, eyes travelling to the other Death Eater in the room. “In private.”

Harry actually laughed. “Do you think me stupid? Whatever you have to say, say it in front of Barty. Even insults.”

“Potter… what I have to convey concerns only you and the Dark Lord. He would be most displeased if others were to gain knowledge on this matter.” The usual sneer. “Tell your guard dog to wait at the door if you’re so frightened by my presence.”

It was a clever bait, but the challenge remained a challenge. Harry held Snape’s unnerving stare, debating. Perhaps he lied, perhaps not. What was the worst that could happen? _Many, many things._ But at the end of the day the man was still a Death Eater, Voldemort still held him in his close circle and, who knew, perhaps Snape had news about the Dark Lord? Perhaps there were complications in Norway. Or perhaps Harry was simply stupid. Only knowing would offer answers.

“Wait outside, Barty, but be on your guard.”

“Yes.”

The _yes_ was muttered through gritted teeth, obviously with displeasure at the dismissal. Barty stared Snape down as he passed the man on his way to the door, slamming it in a theatrical manner.

Harry’s wand was already in his sleeve as he watched Snape slowly take out his own.

“A privacy ward,” the greasy-haired man explained. “Do not panic.”

Harry allowed it, continuing to observe Snape as he inched closer to the table to take a seat far away from him. _All the better._

“So? Tell me about the Dark Lord.”

“About the Dark Lord,” Snape agreed with a nod, going straight to the subject. “Tell me, Potter, didn’t you find it odd that the Order managed to sneak into our Lord’s home, tracing charm or not?”

Harry’s eyes went down. _Down, where_ _Doge_ _held his hands down against the cold, down, between his legs… N_ _o, don_ _’_ _t go there_. He blinked the unrest away, mouth suddenly dry. “What exactly are you suggesting? Do speak already.”

Snape’s temper flared as he dramatically gazed away in exasperation. “You stupid boy. Think about the circumstances. You meet with your friends, then with the Dark Lord who should have sensed the magic placed on you but said nothing before he took you home. But he leaves you alone and vulnerable without a wand. Then intruders barge in and just when the worst is about to happen, the savior arrives just in time to save you from the wicked Order. Thus forever shattering your benevolence towards them and forever tying you to him. You’ve done this yourself and, most importantly, _willingly._ You stupid boy.”

“You lie!” hissed Harry as he stood, pushing the chair back so fiercely it tumbled down to the floor with a loud clatter. “Filthy lies, he wouldn’t…!”

_But he would, wouldn_ _’_ _t he?_

It had made things so much easier, had painted one single road ahead of him. Yet… Harry tasted ash in his mouth while his heart clenched as if ready to burst at any given moment. In spite of all the sweet words and fiery promises, Voldemort had betrayed Harry… _Voldemort had betrayed him_. Traitorous tears clouded Harry’s vision. He… he had allowed Harry to be touched by those vile hands, had let Harry be hurt! Harry had trusted him more than anyone and he had —

_The Dark Lord had ruined it all._

Yes, Harry had been a stupid boy after all… But then those words came back to haunt him — ‘ _If the time should arrive when you lose your trust in me, or when circumstances become too rough, I want you to tell me first. No lies, simply tell me the wrong and I_ _’_ _ll fix it. I only ask for the chance to change your mind again._ ’ Voldemort had made him promise and Harry valued his given word.

The pain of the possible treachery turned both dull and raw but it was numbed by the adrenaline pumping through Harry’s veins. Desperate as he was for some form of relief, Harry made to seek for the only possible solution. He ignored the hurt, worked through it, and instead used it to fuel his strength.

Yet nothing seemed to truly make a difference. Several voices echoed through his head and they all sounded like Voldemort. _I ask for the chance to change your mind again._ Yes, yes, prove me wrong. Prove you didn’t hurt me in this way, not by choice. Some of the voices that did not belong to Voldemort told Harry everything would be fine while others told him otherwise.

Nonetheless, Harry pressed onward. He pushed away from the table and marvelled at the fact that he did not wobble or stagger. Heart in his throat, Harry was at the point of colliding with Barty on his hurried way out.

“Potter, what are you—”

“Take care of everything in my absence.”

He offered no further explanation, not when he couldn’t even put two and two together at the moment. He had only one thing in mind. _Norway._ His last chance for the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on tumblr @lordmarvoloriddle


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Millions and millions of interminable thanks to the most wonderful beta that exists in this entire world (~˘▾˘)~ Vanillaghost. Thank you for your patience and most of all, for your time 💕💕💕

 

Harry’s shirt rippled from the furious rain while his feet sank into mud. The sky was dark and he was stranded in unknown fields but he trod on while calling out to Voldemort will all the might of his magic. _I’_ _m here!_ _Come find me, come at once!_ He desired relief, no matter what form it came in. At some point in his aimless journey, Harry even contemplated giving up completely for there didn't seem to be an end in sight. The Dark Lord was not here, wherever _here_ was. But then Harry took a moment to gather some semblance of sanity even if it proved a hassle as wrath and distress corrupted what was left of his mind.

_Come at once, come!_

Only silence answered his mute cries. With the forest behind and the storm above, it was too quiet, too dire. Only the sound of rain and his own breathing reached his ears. No birds, no animals, only him. But it didn’t matter. Harry was determined to keep going. He was cold and angry and his feet were wet and dirty but he kept going, reaching out for the Dark Lord by pushing violent ripples of magic through their dormant connection. _Come at once, come!_

The rain made everything so damned chilly. Pulling out his wand, Harry was on the verge of casting a warming charm on himself when suddenly the coldness flared up with an intensity unlike ever before. Something was wrong, something was frighteningly wrong. Harry stilled in his already sluggish steps and, shielding his eyes with his hand, peered up at the dark sky from between his fingers. He saw only clouds yet sensed the lurking danger they obscured. Frost began to form around the vegetation and Harry understood at once…

Dementors.

As soon as the thought struck, they arrived as if invoked — dozens upon dozens of Dementors descended from above like vengeful angels clad in living darkness. There was no hesitation on Harry’s part when he cried out, “ _Expecto Patronum!_ ”

But the tip of his wand remained cold and dark.

The monsters still came and Harry’s eyes went wide while intense terror gripped him. He shook with the imperative need to conjure a happy memory yet only horror came to mind. But it was not from the thought of these beings as it had once been so long ago. No, when he dived into his realm of memories there came only a single result. Of him, pinned to the floor while hands reached down his pants and hot breath washed over his face. All the while the mighty Lord Voldemort allowed it all to happen, watching on with glee.

So coldness reigned in Harry’s head with no happiness to be found.

A bony hand came for Harry’s throat and he found himself tumbling down in his need to get away. But he lost his footing in the muddy ground and with desperate hands, so dirty now, tried to push at the Dementor’s skeletal body. Hoping to buy precious time until the nightmarish mouth closed over his. Harry’s mind was invaded by the anguished cries of burning people, a single bloated corpse floating on a peaceful lake, and those clammy fingers making hasty work on his pants. All the while Lord Voldemort, like the guest of honor to a horror show of which Harry was an unwilling victim, looked on. He distantly supposed the Dementor had full reign by now, with Harry’s consciousness soon to leave his body behind…

Then Harry fell. 

With mere heartbeats until he plunged to the ground, Harry became aware that he had been lifted up high into the sky from which he was now tumbling. Wand no longer in his fingers, it seemed nothing could be done about his certain death. Panic took over at once and for a moment Harry could only return to his desperate cries for Voldemort. _Come at once! Save me!_ Then with a violent jerk, he came to a halt — suspended by nothing before his back gently met the ground as if lowered by the arms of a lover.

Harry blinked the raindrops away from his eyes, peering up into the dark circle of Dementors still looming above him, their escaped prey. But why let go of it in the first place?

Shoving the discomfort and dizziness aside, Harry pushed at the soil on which he rested. Every movement sent waves of throbbing pain down his legs as he stood on uncertain feet and spun, searching for the disturbance which had just saved his life. For his saviour, for a certain someone he wished would be there.

There were figures coming his way, dark clad figures. But everything was dark in this weather and he could not see well. Then Harry saw the vague contour of one individual leaving his companions behind, the obvious leader, a savior or perhaps a threat. For a blinking of eyes he dared to hope. _Is it him? Is it him?_ Then, as the figure came closer, his hope was realised: _I_ _t_ _’s him._

The Dark Lord was here, now inches away from a shivering Harry, nearly stalking in his pace. Voldemort shuddered too, although whether from the agonizing cold or anger, Harry couldn’t tell. He just waited for the impact.

“What are you doing here unannounced?” Grey eyes raked up and down Harry’s body, searching for wounds, for explanations, fingers twisting around Harry’s forearm as he was pulled close with the violence of a raging storm.

Harry’s teeth clattered as he tried to form a somewhat coherent response. “I needed to talk to you.”

A vague narrowing of eyes signalled Voldemort’s irritation as he made to tug Harry to his chest but Harry took him aback by resisting.

The Dark Lord stared like a man who understood nothing but wished to understand everything. “ _Harry_ ,” he warned in a low hiss and for the first time in quite a while Harry genuinely feared him and the consequences of what his anger may entail.

Here went nothing… and everything.

“You allowed Doge to touch me just to make me hate the Order.”

Voldemort took the accusation in with a blank gaze. The Death Eaters were still far behind and the Dementors still floating above them like bad omens.

“Who?”

Harry’s face burned in spite of the cold. “ _Who?_ Doge! The one who tried to rape me, the one whose family you burned alive. The man who gave me more nightmares than you ever did.” He closed in on the silent Dark Lord, but now of his own volition. “You once said to let you know if I ever lost my trust in you, to give you the chance to fix things. So here I am,” he rasped around his fury. “Build my trust again. _Fix things_!”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Harry’s breath stilled, utterly taken aback. Voldemort… didn’t look particularly guilty. More tired than anything else, a man who had finally witnessed something he had been waiting for for a long, long time.

In the face of this silent admission Harry wanted to crumble back to his knees and scream his lungs out. _This was supposed to be a lie, a mistake, a false accusation._ Instead he said, “What?”

“We talked about tests before, haven’t we? I told you about existing tests, that much you cannot deny.” Yes he had, from that time in the cabin... where a shivering Harry had listened and accepted the Dark Lord’s atrocious terms, knowing traps lurked at every turn. “The Order was a test of loyalty, yes, but…” Voldemort’s gaze grew dark as he drew near, so close to touching yet not there quite yet. “But I never expected the vermin to engage in such actions against their blessed Chosen One.”

Harry could only let out a bitter laugh at the implications. Prompted by such terrible occurrences, he had opened the door to darkness and his own vile nature. And now… whether or not Harry liked what came through this metaphorical door, he could not close it ever again. All because of a lie. “You lied to me,” he said. “You didn’t trust me enough to tell the truth. I would have never realized if —”

“If what, Harry?”

“Doesn’t matter now. After everything, you still don’t trust me… and I came here like a fool because of my trust in you.”

“But have I ever told you that I trusted you?”

Voldemort’s sincerity broke his heart. It left Harry silent as the man crushed the distance between them and pulled Harry into his arms. The fingers cradling through his hair may have been soothing, yet only based on sensations alone. The current situation changed everything. Voldemort’s words changed everything. Because, in the end, he was telling a bitter truth. The Dark Lord had never said he trusted Harry… not like Harry chose to do with him.

The rain dripped over their clothes and Harry found himself embracing Voldemort in return, tears clouding his vision while he pushed his face into the man’s already damp neck. _It changed everything. Everything, everything, everything..._

“Don’t know what to think, what to feel… I did so many things wrong and you—”

“Then don’t think. Stay with me. Stay a thousand years.”

Harry wanted to. He had nowhere else to go, not really, not after everything he had done or allowed to be done in his name. Who would take him back now? Who else besides Voldemort would understand?

The Dark Lord peppered kisses over his heavy wet eyelids as he nodded his final acceptance. “My Harry… yes, you did some wrongs and for that I thank you... but it’s time for me to return to myself and for you to rest.”

Arms held him as Harry grew far more cold than he already was... and sleepy. The ensuing darkness brought both peace and terror coiling around his heart like restless snakes. There was no time to make accusations or ask for forgiveness — for everything at once. Because both he and the Dark Lord had wronged one another, hadn’t they?

And now there was only chilly air and Voldemort’s voice by his ear as Harry’s eyes grew too heavy… and they closed.

 

*** * ***

 

"I do so abhor when people lay their hands on what’s not theirs. Surely it’s a feeling you can relate to.”

The mudblood faced him so swiftly that the cat jumped from her hands to seek a familiarity she could not find herself. Barty had no knowledge of her name but one thing he did know was that the Dark Lord and Harry Potter wouldn’t be pleased to find their newest pet being held by strange hands.

 _Their pet._ He nearly laughed at the absurd yet true thought.

“Silence!”

Surprisingly, no actual silencing spell accompanied Severus’ outburst. Quite uncharacteristic, Barty thought. But many things were uncharacteristic now, starting from the number of traitors. Of too much filth gathered in this too-close space. At least the cat had run away. She was a smart thing, so who knew? Perhaps she’d reached her masters in time to once again be in the arms she craved so desperately.

There was no hesitation in Barty’s mind that Harry Potter had managed to find the Dark Lord, or that the Dark Lord had perhaps found him. And as if reading his heavily guarded thoughts, there came a curious question.

“Harry?” the pitiful werewolf asked from his place next to the mudblood, in the throne room where _they did not belong._

Severus remained the only one to answer. “He’s playing kiss and make up with You-Know-Who. What else?”

Barty observed them, bound as he was with both chains and magic. They weren’t underestimating him, it seemed; surely Severus’ input, or perhaps not. Both Kingsley Shacklebolt and Remus Lupin knew well-enough what Barty was capable of… But perhaps not clearly enough. No, never enough. On that train of thought, he supposed they believed themselves to be smart, talking before him as if Barty wasn't really there. Either a cunning way to later extract precious information or they did not intend to let him live long enough for his presence to make any difference. The first scenario carried more weight considering Barty had not been killed on the spot like others had, like Dolohov had. Barty was taken aback by his own spur of violence in relation to the demise of his friend. He needed revenge and he would get such revenge… in time. What was that popular saying? Ah, yes, _revenge is a dish best served cold_.

The sheep were talking. Though there were not many sheep present in the first place, he noted with curiosity. The Auror, the werewolf, the mudblood, Severus and Lucius — one a black sheep and the other a white, both equally as treacherous. Not a substantial number considering the sudden usurping of central power. Ah, it became clear rather soon… they had won the fight but they were still not happy, still worried, still exchanging glances while gazing out of the tall windows. It appeared victory was not as sweet as was first presumed. In the streets… something was in motion there.

“Make sure to bow before the Dark Lord for me if you catch his gaze,” Barty mocked the mudblood and her fixed stare.

“Silence!” Severus again, but with still no actual silencing charm.

Pointed steps echoed through the throne room as Kingsley came his way with purpose. “There is this proverb,” the Auror spoke once he stood before Barty, nearly with glee. “Fear makes the wolf bigger than he is.”

“Have no worry, for this wolf is already a beast and now he is famished.”

He expected a blow but nothing came. Only silence and shared looks of unease, making Barty shift in his bindings in excitement. Of course the Dark Lord had done something! They were reacting as if the sound of his name burned. Of course! The Dark Lord was glorious! Ruthless! Terrifying! It was only a matter of time before he took everything back, before he slaughtered each and every traitor.

Barty could hardly wait. But he would.

Moments later, only Lucius and the mudblood remained in the room, the rest leaving with strained postures and no explanations. As soon as the girl met his gaze, Barty realized she had been crying. Good news, then. Even the bindings did not cut into his skin quite as deep. But why was she crying? For what reason? 

 

*** * ***

 

Something… something was missing… a limb? _No_. A tentative movement signalled Harry had not lost any physical functions, not even a finger… but something terribly important was definitely lacking and Harry ached for it so badly tears spilled from his closed eyes. And he was so cold! As cold as only a corpse could dream to be! Was Harry dead? No, dead people did not ache. They did not miss and they certainly did not weep. Besides, Harry was quite sure Voldemort wouldn’t allow such a thing while he drew even half of a breath. _Stay a thousand years._ Not for a thousand years then, perhaps longer, perhaps forever.

Not without effort, Harry at last opened his weighty eyelids. The void amplified as things came into focus, gradually, one at a time. A single thing was clear enough with a single glance. A tall form loomed over him, a face he need not glimpse in order to recognise.

Voldemort had not left him, he was safe.

The mere sight of this man filled Harry with such joy he could barely speak… but tried anyway. Then… Harry really _saw_. The dirt on the Dark Lord’s face, the nasty cut across his left cheekbone, his dusty and bloody clothes… the way _something_ dripped down onto the floor in a painful yet familiar rhythm. Harry bolted upright so suddenly that the entire room spun in and out of focus. Shaky legs did him no favours as he swung his lower limbs over the edge of the bed… but Harry found he could not move any farther. Something was missing, he could not support his own weight and now Voldemort looked like a disheveled soldier escaped straight out of a vicious war. What had happened during his sleep? And why had Harry been asleep in the first place?

“You’re… you’re bleeding?”

A tense moment of silence passed before the man advanced, one step at a time, always accompanied by two drips. _Two steps, four drips_. Blood on the floor. And then Lord Voldemort kneeled before Harry. The moment their eyes met, Harry nearly choked in fear. His hands fell back onto the bed, abandoning their journey to the dark tangle that was Voldmort’s hair. Resting in such a vulnerable position, the Dark Lord nevertheless mirrored a predator and possessor of silent menaces that were nearly inhuman. Not even those talented writers Hermione liked to quote could describe what Voldemort invoked in Harry as of now.

“Why so silent, dear Harry? Cat got your tongue?”

In face of the cruel words thrown so casually at him, Harry made to lean back but the man’s slippery palms coiled around his thighs and _pulled_ , forcing Harry to spread his legs around the Dark Lord’s body. Everywhere they touched was wet. _Wet_ _with blood_.

“What did you do?” Harry asked in a small voice.

The other man’s smile showed too much teeth. “The real question is what did you make me do? No, no, no, don’t scream. Only listen.” Grey eyes turned dark in an instant. “And listen well. In the very same Diagon Alley you know so well, hospitals burned with patients still inside while nurses were gang-raped before being hung alongside anyone who dared survive. All to the merry accompaniment of the song _Vanished & Banished_. And unknown song for my ears but this is of little importance — no, no, no, don’t judge just yet. The blame is shared… by both my men and the precious Order. This is war, Harry… Do see how pretty it is when there’s no one to put a stop to it? When control is ripped apart? Everyone hates everyone, everyone seeks revenge, and everyone suffers. All while blood gathers in puddles on the street.”

“What did you do?” hissed Harry, horror diving into his bones like the icy coldness of snow.

“What did your foolishness do?” Abruptly the man let his head fall into Harry’s lap. “Your departure was an opportunity, a distraction for our party, for me.” His grip on Harry’s thighs grew rather painful. “Lucius’ betrayal came as no surprise… but his direct subordination to the Order certainly did. So, dear Harry, I temporarily lost… and the world is a rather less peaceful place than it was yesterday. Yet who knew that some people would learn to appreciate my reign so quickly? And you… you ruined everything. Just to feel wanted by me.”

Harry was now crying, hands quivering as they finally settled into Voldemort’s hair.

“I needed you,” he tried to justify himself, seeking to banish the blame threatening to drown his entire existence. “I could not—”

“I know. I both resent and adore you for running to me.” 

“Is everything going to be okay?”

The man laughed at the childish question, a laughter devoid of any humor. “In these specific circumstances? No. But I assure you, Harry, you are wanted. For I wouldn’t wish you to look at someone else and feel the same as I do when I gaze at you.”

At last Voldemort’s gaze returned to him. _Deathly handsome_ was the expression that came to Harry’s mind, a warrior at his feet. He wished to both hurt and embrace this man. One who lied, who hurt, who slaughtered. But the truth was the truth and it did not care about Harry’s feelings or what was left of his morals. Voldemort had never promised charity. That remained the sole fact… and long may it reign.

With purpose, and the pad of his fingers, Harry brushed the cut on Voldemort’s cheekbone, willing it to heal. _Willing them to heal._ The Dark Lord simply stood, a predator accepting to be touched by a faithful accomplice. Accomplice, yes, for Harry’s world had been in the process of being demolished for quite a while now and only Voldemort had remained to witness the aftermath. They were each other’s accomplices through good and bad. Perhaps this was far more precious than love… an alliance beyond any doubts.

Harry rested their foreheads together, distantly conscious of how the previous void had lessened. But Voldemort’s eyes were still so very unwelcoming. He needed to quiet the man’s pride. So Harry offered the one thing he knew Voldemort would want now… the one thing besides inflicting unimaginable pain on his precious horcrux.

“Fuck me,” he breathed in the Dark Lord’s mouth. “Fuck me, please.”

Pupils flared before Harry found himself pushed back onto the bed with a fiery Voldemort’s between his legs. It went as well as expected. Fast and hard, here and there dancing with pain, with punishment. Voldemort uttered a stream of filthy words straight into Harry’s ear, every hot breath just enough to forget how this man was soiling him with innocent people’s blood on his clothes. These thoughts were distracting, Voldemort was distracting, with his hard kisses down Harry’s neck and collarbone, so distracting that Harry didn’t notice when he was already taking in a second finger before he even registered the first.

“You can — you can —”

“Of course I can.”

Then Voldemort was inside him, with Harry’s knees pushed too far apart for comfort. But Voldemort was there, in his face, his forearms on each side of Harry’s head and close, so close. Harry held his burning gaze as his hands gripped the man’s broad shoulders. His hands met wetness and Harry could not suppress both the moan of pleasure and one of disgust as the Dark Lord buried himself deeper with hard thrusts, fucking into the hot body below him with the intense fervor only punishment could imply.

“Take it off,” Harry pleaded, tugging at the damp clothing making his skin crawl. Surprisingly, the man did so at once. His upper body made quick work of his garments, throwing both shirts to the floor... and revealing the source of all the blood. Voldemort’s chest was an open mess of cuts, stabs, and blood — wet blood and dried blood that travelled up and down with every erratic breath the Dark Lord took. Harry’s eyes filled with tears at the sight and a tentative palm pressed against Voldemort’s chest before the man grabbed hold of his wrist, guiding Harry’s hand to his back before he once again leaned over him and breathed right into Harry’s mouth as he moved his hips.

“You’re hurt, you’re in pain…”

Voldemort silenced him with a bruising kiss, making his own noises of pleasure, low breaths coming hot and heavy… perhaps hiding pain among them. Harry was long gone by then, mouth against Voldemort’s neck, hands smoothing down his back, making the twinges go away. The man’s eyes remained open even as he came, burying himself in Harry one final time. Warmness pooled between Harry’s legs, accompanying the one clinging to his body.

The Dark Lord’s lips were ghosting down his cheeks and Harry could not cease his trembling. _Voldemort was hurt, Voldmort could still die_ , he thought, and _: I would be all alone in the world_. He nearly sobbed, clinging to the Dark Lord and his words, to the strange calmness in his tired voice.

“...are forgiven… it’s you, after all, but…” Voldemort said, and leaned up to peer down into Harry’s face as fingers trailed the trajectory left by his lips. “I wonder… are you empty right now because there’s no horcrux in your inviting body anymore, Harry? Yet you’re still here with me, so is this proof enough of your value? In the end… it is a lesson, if anything else. So learn. Actions have their consequences.”

Harry was crying now and Voldemort held him, rocking back and forth, naked and bloody and utterly in pieces. But from then on… it seemed there would just be one piece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on tumblr @lordmarvoloriddle

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are more than well received 🌈


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